


The King is Dead

by SilentAuror



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bloody long, Drama, HLV fix-it, His Last Vow, His Last Vow fix-it, Infidelity (Mary Morstan), M/M, POV John Watson, Romance, agra, series 3 fix-it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-24
Updated: 2014-03-24
Packaged: 2018-01-16 19:35:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 40,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1359319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilentAuror/pseuds/SilentAuror
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moriarty is dead. But has a new king risen to take his place? As John sorts out what to do about the AGRA memory stick and his marriage, he and Sherlock are investigating precisely who and what was behind the broadcast on New Year's Day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The King is Dead

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [The King is Dead](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2140515) by [shawnordaisy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shawnordaisy/pseuds/shawnordaisy)



> Russian translation by Olga Klimenko available here: https://ficbook.net/readfic/4342499

**The King is Dead**

 

Sherlock is bored. 

That’s nothing new, except this time, John is bored, too. Seven weeks is a long time for a hospital stay. It doesn’t matter now; it will be over in a few days and frankly, John can’t wait. He’s already lectured Sherlock about how much shorter it could have been if he hadn’t climbed out a window a week after having been shot in the chest, but they’ve been over this dozens of times already. And John does understand why it was necessary. He just wishes Sherlock could have found a better way to sneak out that would have done him less damage. That night damaged them both, though. 

Today he has a specific topic to bring up, something they haven’t been over a dozen times already. John’s thought about it almost endlessly himself, but so far hasn’t talked it over with Sherlock. There’s been no lack of opportunities; John practically lives in Sherlock’s hospital room these days. It’s now the fifth of December and the supervising physician has cautiously said that Sherlock will be able to go home in four or five days, assuming he doesn’t do anything to set himself back again. Home to Baker Street, which is where John has been living. Things are too awful at the flat; when Mary is there they don’t talk and her eyes follow him around like plaintive, accusing ghosts and he can’t take it. She clearly wants him to start talking to her again, occasionally tries to break the ice, but the best John can do is monosyllabic answers and then he usually ends up going back to Baker Street. She seems to want his forgiveness, yet she’s also silently defiant about it all, doesn’t really think she needs to be forgiven. When John thinks of it that way, he gets angry all over again. If she doesn’t think she needs forgiving, then he doesn’t need to try, does he? Of _course_ she needs forgiveness; what she did was unforgiveable. And he’s not sure he’s got it in him to forgive it. If she isn’t even sorry, then why should he try? He’s already been over it with Sherlock, the fact that there was no way on earth she _needed_ to shoot him. He remembers that particular conversation vividly. 

John had ordered Sherlock to cut the rot about having been somehow drawn innately to Mary because of her dangerous past. He’d given Sherlock to understand quite clearly that he’d had absolutely zero clue about Mary in any way, shape, or form, and Sherlock had conceded the point after awhile. They’d tried to figure it out and even Sherlock has admitted that he doesn’t entirely understand her reasoning. “Look,” he’d said. “She was there for one purpose: to get whatever papers Magnussen had on her, not realising that a), he doesn’t have any papers, and b) that if he did, he would have kept them at Appledore, not his flat in town. Secondly, she needed to maintain her cover with you. Obviously once I arrived, I put that into enormous jeopardy.”

“But she didn’t have to _shoot_ you,” John had argued. “She could have tried talking, for Christ’s sake!”

“She could have,” Sherlock had agreed. “Only there wasn’t much time.”

“So – what, _killing_ someone, your friend, is better?” John had demanded. “You made us both a vow, at our wedding, to do whatever it would take to protect us. She could have tried trusting you. You’re my best friend, damn it, and you’ve been a bloody good friend to her, too. A lack of time doesn’t justify _shooting_ someone!”

“True,” Sherlock had conceded. He’d sighed. “I’m still trying to understand her reasoning, myself.”

“So, she needed me not to find out,” John had said. “Right. Of course. I get that. She also didn’t want me blamed for shooting Magnussen. Fair enough. But what was it going to help her, getting you out of there? You were still going to know. If she wasn’t trying to kill you, she could have shot you in the shoulder or something. The leg. That still would have sent you to the hospital, and then what was she going to do? If you were still alive and she’d then killed Magnussen, you were always going to know it was her. What was the point?”

“She did come back and threaten me,” Sherlock had reminded him. “Perhaps she needed me injured badly enough to render me unconscious, so that I wouldn’t have time to tell you anything before she’d had a chance to threaten me.”

“Right, not increasing my confidence in her there at all,” John had said heavily. “You’re saying that she actively _nearly_ killed you on purpose, in cold blood, with the intent to talk to you about it all _after_.”

Sherlock had fallen silent then. “I suppose that is what I’m saying,” he’d said after awhile, sounding reluctant. “I can’t see any other way of seeing it.”

“And if you’d died on the way to the hospital – here,” John had corrected himself, “or on the operating table, then oh well, too bad, there was always a chance that could happen, but your silence would’ve definitely been guaranteed in that case.” He’d glared at Sherlock, though it wasn’t Sherlock he was angry with. “Tell me I’m wrong about that.”

Sherlock had looked down at his hands, folded over the hospital gown covering his stomach then. “I don’t think I can,” he’d said quietly. “I’m sorry, John.”

John had given a short, entirely joyless laugh. “You’re the last person who should be apologising here.”

Since that conversation, the weeks have gone by and Sherlock has begun to heal properly this time. He’s allowed to walk around the hospital, though not to leave. He’s taken to badgering John to bring him more and more things from Baker Street, and for the most part, they don’t really talk about Mary. John is undecided and flip-flops on the subject from day to day. Some days he thinks that he really does have to forgive her eventually, for the baby’s sake. There’s a child now. That changes things. He’s not the sort to run off and leave his own child behind. Another part of his brain reminds him that divorce has never prevented anyone from raising their own child. And despite his enormous rage about everything – all of the lies – and there are _so_ many John doesn’t even know where to begin – and the part where Mary shot Sherlock with the possible intent of killing him – it’s rather too much to reconcile with what he feels for her. Has felt for her. Used to feel for her? John doesn’t know the correct verb tense to use for that one. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do, and part of that hinges on the specific topic he’s planned to bring up with Sherlock today. 

Sherlock is still complaining. “… the nurse with the halitosis isn’t speaking to me, possibly because I mentioned that he’d have more luck pulling men if he did something about his breath, and now they always send in that old hag, the one who always lectures me about drinking the tea you sneak in – thank you, by the way – and I started a mould experiment with last Friday’s fish entrée, whatever _that_ was supposed to be, and since she’s now disposed of it I have nothing to do and I’m so bored it’s a miracle I haven’t started experimenting on the other patients or something just to entertain myself. Every minute that you’re not here is an eternity.”

John smiles at this, actually touched by it in a stupid way. The fact that he is somehow an exception to Sherlock’s boredom is a change from how things used to be, isn’t it? His smile fades and he pulls the memory stick out of his pocket. “I brought something that might be interesting,” he says in a different tone. It’s grim, but it’s a grim subject. 

Sherlock’s attention sharpens keenly as his eyes fall on it and his mood shifts entirely. He’s quiet for a moment, then says without looking at John, “Are you sure?”

“It’s time, don’t you think?” John says, a bit abrupt. He can’t help it; it’s still such a difficult topic and they haven’t even mentioned Mary in days. “I mean, I’ve got to see it sometime.”

“You wouldn’t rather… be on your own for it?” Sherlock does glance at him now, his eyes sharply blue in the fluorescent light. 

“No,” John says shortly. “If anyone can help me make sense of it… anyway, I’ve got my laptop here. I thought maybe you’d like to look at it with me. I can’t just go on not knowing. I’m tired of being in the dark about… all of it. Who she really is. I’ve got to decide which way to go eventually, haven’t I? I figured it might help to have all of the information.”

Sherlock regards him intently for a minute, then says, “I was starting to think you were never going to look at it.”

John feels his lips tighten. “Yeah, well,” he mutters. “Anyway, here.” He hands it over, then bends to fish out his laptop from his bag. Sherlock is silent while John finds an outlet and plugs it in, turns it on, waits for it to boot up. Once it’s going, he gives Sherlock the laptop to hold and scoots his chair round beside him. Sherlock lowers the bed a bit so that they’re on the same level, then inserts the memory stick into one of the USB drives. 

They wait a moment until John’s laptop asks if they want to open the drive to view the files and Sherlock hesitates, then clicks “yes”. 

It’s empty. There’s nothing there. 

They’re both speechless for a second, then John says, “Wh – I don’t understand.”

“It’s empty,” Sherlock says, as though to himself. He sounds unsurprised, somehow. Thoughtful. “Hmm. I did wonder if she would really tell you.”

John’s speechlessness is beginning to turn into anger, a wall of solid, blazing rage. “What – the fuck – ” he begins, cutting himself off before he actually starts yelling. He yanks the stick out of the drive and hurls it across the room, wresting himself out of his chair and pacing a few steps, just because he can’t even bear to be sitting still at the moment. He’s got on hand one his forehead, one on his hip and he wants to scream at everything, throw everything. At this precise moment, he wants to kill Mary, not just divorce her. He’s knows he’s being irrational and doesn’t care. 

Sherlock watches him furtively, carefully not saying anything. 

John whirls and looks at him suddenly. “Mycroft,” he says. 

Sherlock quirks an eyebrow at him. “Wrong Holmes,” he says mildly. 

“No, _Mycroft_ ,” John repeats, glaring. “Does he know? What does he know? He must know something!”

Sherlock takes a moment to answer, still eyeing John with caution. “I don’t know what he knows,” he says. “But I assume he does know more than we do. I knew he was investigating.”

And why Sherlock hadn’t shared _that_ is anyone’s guess, though John can extrapolate that well enough – knowing that his best friend was inevitably getting married, Sherlock had in every other respect seemed to accept it as a fait accompli and went with it, went along with _all_ of it, including his suspicions about Mary. But he would have known that Mycroft would know more. God only knows what the two of them had discussed about it. “I want to talk to him,” John says now. He pulls out his phone and turns it on, gives it to Sherlock. None of the machines that are currently in use around Sherlock will be affected by it. “Call him,” John orders. 

Sherlock takes the phone, thumb already entering the number. “You hate Mycroft,” he points out. “It’s one of my favourite things about you.”

“Sherlock,” John says warningly, “thanks, but I’m really not in the mood for that sort of thing. Call him now, please. Tell him to get over here and be prepared to talk.”

Sherlock holds his gaze a moment, then nods, eyes dropping to the phone. He lifts it to his ear, waits a moment, then says, “Brother dear. Hope I’m not interrupting your plans for World War III. You’re needed.”

***

Mycroft’s file weighs approximately ten pounds on John’s lap and he feels numb. One thing Mary said was actually true: that he wouldn’t love her any more if he knew the truth, not that she’d given it to him. He doesn’t know if that’s precisely true, but the numbness in his chest is more the absolute void of every emotion he’s ever had, even rage. He just feels blank. Heavy with too much unwanted knowledge, but he’d had to learn it, hadn’t he? The file is full of dates, documents, photos, more documents. It isn’t, as he’d been privately hoping, something small blown out of proportion. If anything, it’s worse than he thought. He isn’t sure exactly what he was hoping to find, but John supposes it went something along the lines of: Mary used to be an intelligence officer with the CIA and took one mistaken freelance job which she’d always regretted, that her remorse had driven her from that life and into a new direction, after which point she’d met John and everything had changed. It’s not that at all. The CIA employment lasted five years, the freelance years at least twice that, depending on when she stopped being what she is, which is a very highly-paid professional assassin. Even that, John had thought maybe he could eventually reconcile himself to: if Mary had killed for principle, ridding the world of one unsavoury criminal mastermind at a time, maybe then he could have accepted it in time. But the kills are only for money, and she’s killed more people John would have considered good guys than bad guys, by a lot.

In fact, one could fairly say that she’s really only killed good people, unless they’re missing rather a lot of information. Mycroft and his shadowy organisation have credited many of the world’s highest-profile assassinations and bombings to Mary, in fact. The bomb at the United Nations summit on global warming seven years ago. The assassination of the British ambassador to Somalia while he was there as the keynote speaker at a conference on hunger. The CEO of the World Wildlife Fund, for God’s sake. The bombing at the Golden Globes just after the award for best documentary was announced, a documentary entitled _The Grief of the Gulf_ , on the subject of the massive avian deaths caused by the Exxon oil leak in the Gulf of Mexico. The murder of the Nigerian ambassador while on a visit to the White House, at a closed-room dinner. No press had been allowed entrance, every single guest screened thoroughly, yet the man’s utensils had exploded in his hands, killing him slowly and messily, and causing permanent injury to the two people seated on either side (his wife and the aide to a diplomat from France). 

It’s horrible and John feels sick. The worst of it is that the file also includes crimes that occurred within the past five years. Sherlock said that Mary became Mary five years ago. John knows less than he should about those five years. Because of his own reluctance to speak about the past (the past being Sherlock and his suicide, and before that, the war), they’d always focused on the present, and John never questioned it. It just never seemed to come up. Now, in twenty-twenty retrospect, he sees Mary’s hand in that, always steering the conversation away from her own past. He has no idea which parts are true, if any of them. 

“Does she even have a nursing degree?” he asks, not sure why this one question is the one that comes to his lips now. He’s asked others, and Mycroft is answering to the best of his ability, mercifully straightforward and free of pity. 

Mycroft frowns and reaches over to take the file back. He flips several pages, then finds what he’s looking for. “No,” he says, “but she did complete two years of pre-medicine in Cleveland. Her RN license was fabricated along with the rest of her current identity. We’re not certain why she spent the time there; perhaps the CIA required it as part of field training. She was already in their pay at that time. Perhaps it was espionage of some sort or another, but despite her fraudulent tax returns over the years, we were successful in tracing payments made to the alias she was using at that college. The Social Security number matches.”

John can’t even think of her by her real name, though it does make it feel more like a she’s completely separate entity from the concept of Mary that existed in his mind before now. There’s a list of her known aliases – known _now_ , at least. It seems that no one before Mycroft has ever managed to compile a complete or semi-complete file on her before. She started as Alma Geraldine Rachel Ackerly from Arlington, Virginia. Then they lost track of her for a bit, likely after the first name change. Through photos Mycroft’s people tracked her to Cleveland and the nursing college, where she was registered under the name of Gloria Stevenson. Then she surfaced in Copenhagen as Birgitte Lauridsen. Later it was Sabrina Moran in Belfast, and still later it was Judith Gunnarson in Stockholm for a brief period. There may be others – there are almost certainly others – but these are the ones Mycroft has found so far. And then taking Mary Morstan from the grave of a stillborn infant... He thinks of all the times his mouth has ever shaped her name, lovingly, in annoyance, in endearment, in impatience, in the heat of the moment, though their love-making was always relatively quiet, very civilised. He remembers saying it tenderly in the restaurant, just before Sherlock interrupted and mercifully – though he hadn’t thought so at the time – changed his life all over again, again. The name means nothing. The face means nothing. She isn’t any of the things he thought, believed, hoped that she was. 

He realises he’s stopped talking and that everything has gone quiet. Sherlock and Mycroft are both watching him, Mycroft’s gaze sharp, Sherlock’s no less keen but more concerned. John makes himself breathe. “I want out,” he says shortly. He looks back and forth between them. “Can I do that? Can I just divorce her? Can I just tell her that I’ve looked at the memory stick and know she lied, again?”

Sherlock looks to Mycroft, uncharacteristically deferential, and that more than anything else goes a long way to convince John that it really could be dangerous to file for divorce now. His own safety is the only thing that ever motivates Sherlock to change his behaviour concerning anything, and this is a significant deviation from his norm. Mycroft looks back at Sherlock for a moment, eyebrows arched superciliously, then shifts focus back to John. “I think not,” he says cautiously. “For everyone’s safety, John, it might be better if you were to forgive her and carry on with your marriage, at least in name. I realise that could be difficult, given what you know, but you’ll have to feign ignorance.” He smiles unpleasantly. “It shouldn’t be _too_ difficult.”

That’s definitely a jab in revenge for John’s comments about Mycroft threatening to threaten him. John lets it slide, more preoccupied with the subject at hand. He sighs heavily. “I thought you’d say that,” he says tersely. “So tell me, then: why, precisely, did you keep all this from me all this time?”

Mycroft shrugs. “Sherlock particularly wanted me to keep my research to myself. Take it up with him.”

John’s eyes go to Sherlock, who is twisting a pen in his long fingers. “I didn’t know the extent of it, John,” he says quietly. “I promise you that. I didn’t know.”

John lets it go, not wanting to talk about it in front of Mycroft. That’s his own issue with Sherlock, and besides, he already understands that Sherlock actually managed to suppress his own, undying curiosity out of deference to their friendship, and he appreciates it. Sherlock couldn’t have known. He would have, had he investigated himself, but he didn’t out of loyalty to John, and that means something to him. Quite a lot, in fact. “Okay,” he says, and Sherlock gives him a fleetingly grateful look for letting him off the hook. It comes with a small smile, quickly hidden before Mycroft can notice it, and it does something to loosen the knots in John’s stomach. Whatever else, he still has an amazing friend in Sherlock. He’s lucky to have him. He’s got him back from death – whether near or perceived – twice now, and he decided the night that Sherlock was shot to never ever let himself forget how much Sherlock means to him. This extraordinary man has somehow lowered himself to the realm of mere mortals and not only accepted that John loves him and calls him his best friend, but shockingly returned the sentiment himself, in public at that. It means the world to John and he’s not likely to forget it, even now, when his life is in chaos. He looks back at Mycroft. “So what happens now?”

Mycroft recrosses his spindly legs the other way, passing the file to Sherlock at the same time. Now that John has finished with it, Sherlock is permitted to have a look. “Now we wait,” he says. “My people have indications that something large is in the works. Magnussen is part of it but I don’t believe it’s the end game. Magnussen is important but he’s not the mastermind – he just holds the information. The proofs. I believe he works for himself, but one of my agents insists on his own theory that Mary and Magnussen were previously acquainted. I mean, he did send her a telegraph for the wedding, and she easily recognised his initials, as you said. One does wonder how she would have done so if she hadn’t already known him in some capacity. I wonder: did he threaten her? Why? Besides which, Magnussen comes from Copenhagen; Mary spent three years there. It’s not that large a city, particularly for two presences as large as theirs. It’s quite possible that their paths crossed. But we lack proof of any kind; it’s merely a theory.”

“So, when you say that something large is in the works, what do you mean?” John presses. “Something large that Mary is organising, specifically?”

“Possibly,” Mycroft says, with irritating neutrality. “Of course, once you’re living at home again, you’ll be well positioned to keep an eye on her movements. When does her maternity leave start?”

This John knows more because they work in the same clinic than because she’s told him. “In the new year,” he says. “The first of January. The clinic’s getting another nurse in. An actual, licensed nurse this time, I hope,” he adds irritably. “So what, you think she’s about to pull something?”

“Possibly,” Mycroft says again. “This is primarily speculation at this point, John. But you’ve seen for yourself that her work hasn’t stopped since she became Mary Morstan. There is no particular reason to believe that nursing isn’t merely another of her covers. I realise that it would be preferable to believe that she’s left that lifestyle behind, but I find no evidence of that. She’s had other day jobs before.”

“And other husbands?” John asks, unable to keep the bitterness from his tone .

Mycroft compresses his lips in what might actually be something like understanding. “Unknown,” he admits. “But not that we’ve found so far. Boyfriends, certainly. You’re acquainted with David Gordon – you invited him to your wedding.”

“Mary invited him,” Sherlock interjects. 

Mycroft makes a _what does that actually matter_ gesture with his hands. “Either way,” he says. “The point is that we have reason to believe she’s still an active agent. Things have been moving. There are more operatives coming into the London area, though there are no obvious connections between them. Yet. Unlike in the case of Lord Moran, there is no clear threat emerging. Just shadows.”

The name twigs John’s memory. “Lord Moran,” he says, frowning. “Wasn’t one of her aliases Moran?”

“Yes,” Mycroft tells him. “While she was basing herself out of Belfast. It’s an extremely common name, however; I doubt they were connected. Certainly not biologically; it was only an alias.”

John absorbs this and wonders how much more information his head can possibly contain before it explodes. “Okay,” he says in defeat. “So, what am I supposed to do, then? Just… forgive her and move back into the flat?”

Mycroft glances at Sherlock, whose face is inscrutable. “That would be the wisest course of action, at least for now,” Mycroft says. “It will be Christmas soon. That could give you a suitable reason to do it. Many people become very sentimental around the holidays for some unfathomable reason.”

Being exactly the sort of person who would do exactly that, John can’t help the dirty look he gives Mycroft at this. “I’m not sure I can lie that convincingly,” he says. “Just – after months of not talking to her, I’m just supposed to up and forgive her? I don’t know if she would even believe that.”

“I’ll help you,” Sherlock volunteers, still quiet, speaking to him as though trying to prevent Mycroft from hearing, as if they’re on their own. “We’ll find a way to make it sound convincing.” He gives the file back to his brother. “And you’ll keep us informed,” he says, waiting for a confirmation. It’s also clearly a broad hint to go. 

Mycroft catches it. “Dismissed, am I?” he says with a sniff. He takes the file and puts it back into his briefcase. “Always good to be at your beck and call, brother mine.” The sarcasm is thick. 

Despite loathing the man, John stands. “Thank you for coming,” he says formally. “I… appreciate it.”

“Don’t strain yourself,” Mycroft says, his smile twisting into a grimace. He picks up his coat and umbrella, transfers the briefcase to his other hand, and makes for the door. “I’ll be in touch,” he says over his shoulder. 

He’s gone, at last. John sits down again, heavily, then looks at Sherlock to find that same, concerned gaze already waiting. They’re on their own again, without Mycroft to witness John’s reactions and pick them apart. Somehow he doesn’t mind Sherlock seeing it, how much all of this is affecting him. John meets his eyes and can feel the uncharacteristic compassion there. “Bloody hell,” he says inadequately. 

“I’ll say.” Sherlock is definitely sympathetic. For a moment they just let the silence hang between them, heavy with Sherlock’s understanding and John’s lostness. Then Sherlock says, in an obviously forced effort at levity, “So, who’s the current prime minister again?”

John can’t help it; he laughs. “I need a drink,” he says. 

“So do I.”

“Think again.”

“I was thinking again. Maybe once I’m home.” It’s halfway between a statement and a suggestion.

John is in no state to make promises of any kind. “We’ll see,” he says. 

***

“Would you come here a moment?” John asks. This is difficult. So very difficult. 

Mary doesn’t move, shakes her head. “No. Tell me. Have you?”

She means the memory stick, and her refusal to even let John forgive her the way he wants to makes him grit his teeth. “ _Just_ …” he stops and attempts to make himself sound calmer. He’s supposed to be sounding merciful, after all. “Come here,” he finishes, voice deliberately gentler. 

Mary grimaces, pulls the blanket off her lap and begins to push herself to her feet. John makes to help her but she refuses it. “No, I’m fine.” 

John backs over to the fire and she comes to stand in front of him, eyes lowered. He finds he can barely speak; the prepared words sticking in his throat. He can feel the imprinted memory of everything he once felt for her, yet the truth crowds into his thoughts and squelches the last embers of it. The CEO of the World Wildlife Fund. He’s looking at his killer. That’s all this is. This is a covert operation now, wherein John has to play the role of the husband, duped and willfully blind to the truth. He knows nothing, in this story, because he chose to love instead. “I’ve thought long and hard about what I want to say you,” he says, then stops to draw in a breath. It goes well with the act and besides which, he needs it anyway. He hates this, hates doing this. Hates that he’s even pretending to forgive her for something she hasn’t asked his forgiveness for in the first place. “These are prepared words,” he says. “I’ve chosen these words with care.”

“Okay,” Mary says cautiously. 

John clears his throat and fiddles with the memory stick, trying to rein in his anger. She should be on her knees begging his forgiveness for everything she’s done, everything that she is. For having lied to him all this time. For having manipulated him. For having shot Sherlock. And for the empty memory stick he’s holding in his fingers, and all the crimes she deliberately did not put onto it. For manipulating his very trust, his decency and integrity, believing that he wouldn’t look. With a herculean effort he squashes down these thoughts and makes himself repeat the words he and Sherlock decided on, makes himself try to sound like himself. “The problems of your past are your business,” he says, as though said problems are nothing more than a drunk driving charge from uni days and a previous marriage gone wrong or something. Focus on the planned script, that’s it. “The problems of your future are my privilege.” Mary’s face actually registers an emotional response to this. She looks like she’s about to start crying. Maybe he actually hit a mark in there. “It’s all I have to say,” he says, getting the last of it out. “It’s all I need to know.”

Mary is crying now, and it’s a bit ugly, her face crumpled and washed out in the bright red turtleneck she’s wearing.

John turns away and tosses the memory stick into the fireplace. He clears his throat again, steeling himself for the last lie. “No, I didn’t read it,” he tells her. 

The tears are rolling over her cheeks. “You don’t even know my name,” she says in a voice soggy with emotion.

As if he would have learned it from reading the memory stick, anyway. John forces down his gut response to that. “Is ‘Mary Watson’ good enough for you?”

“Yes!” Mary sobs, wiping her nose with her fingers. “Oh my God, yes.”

“Then it’s good enough for me, too.” John makes himself give a small smile. 

Mary throws herself into his arms and John hugs her. Despite the unfamiliarity of her pregnancy-swollen belly, she still feels so familiar. It makes his gut ache. For a moment he can almost just pretend that this is nothing more than a make-up after a domestic squabble. Almost. John closes his eyes and reminds himself that he’s only acting, now. Time to put the finishing touches on this. 

“All this does not mean that I’m not still basically pissed off with you,” he says. He and Sherlock agreed that he couldn’t sound _too_ forgiving. It had to be realistic, sound like him. 

“I know, I know,” Mary says hastily, through her tears, sniffling. 

John pulls back to look at her. “You can mow the sodding lawn from now on,” he improvises, a source of previous arguments. (If Sherlock is listening in, he should approve. That was always a sore point and sounds convincing.) 

“I _do_ mow the lawn,” Mary says, which is exactly what she would have said before. 

“No, I do it loads,” John argues, as he would have done before. 

“You really don’t,” she corrects him. 

“I choose the baby’s name,” John tries. 

“Not a chance,” Mary says flatly, not considering it for a second. 

Shouldn’t she be more relieved that he’s forgiven her, John thinks, going through the motions of hugging her again. They’ve just been through over two months of silence and she’s still being this selfish, this controlling, even about the baby’s name – not thirty seconds after John’s apparent forgiveness? It occurs to him that he doesn’t even _like_ her any more, and almost wonders how he ever did in the first place. Was she always like this? She must have been. He can remember dozens of times when she was completely lovely, though. There were also the times when she would gently tease or make fun of him, or jokingly say that he didn’t contribute anything, make enough money, dress all that well, was gaining weight, but if he ever said anything, she would claim that she’d been teasing and ask where his sense of humour was. This bit about the baby’s name, though – it grates. As though he doesn’t even have a right to have a say in that decision. Before he can say anything, though, Mary is speaking again. 

“So you realise that, er, Sherlock got us out here to see his mum and dad for a reason?” she says, stumbling ever so slightly before saying Sherlock’s name. 

This is precisely what he and Sherlock were hoping Mary would think. They thought she might believe that Christmas had made John sentimental/more forgiving, after all. Sherlock had been the one to extend the invitation to both of them, and John had made a point of going by the flat and gruffly telling Mary he hoped she would come. She’d briefly agreed to do so, and John had been waiting outside the flat when Mycroft’s car came by to pick them up, Sherlock already in the back seat. The three of them hadn’t spoken for the entire drive out to Gloucester. That was planned, too; John wanted it to feel awkward, wanted Mary’s reaction to his forgiveness to be one of relieved gratitude. Which it almost was. He brings out a smile at her words now. “His lovely mum and dad. A fine example of married life. I get that. That is the thing with Sherlock – it’s always the unexpected.”

Exactly on schedule, Mary begins to slump in his arms. Perfect dosage, then. Well done, Bill. “Oi,” John says, frowning at her, just in case she’s still partially conscious. He’s got to be quick about it, though; the chopper is due to pick them up any time now. “Oi.” He lowers her into the armchair. “Mary, can you hear me?” It’s perfect: she’s unconscious. 

The door opens (again, perfectly on schedule), and Sherlock walks briskly in. “Don’t drink Mary’s tea,” he says, and the rest of the plan swings into place. The chopper arrives as arranged with Magnussen’s staff, and then they’re off to Appledore. 

***

John thinks later that possibly Mycroft is the only other person who had as large a heart attack as he did the moment when Sherlock shot Magnussen, but as Mycroft only speaks to him when necessary, he certainly felt alone at the moment. He’s beyond relieved that Mycroft got Sherlock back, as Mycroft tersely promised. Sherlock himself had sent a text while John and Mary had been in the car (Mycroft’s) on the way over to see Sherlock off. It had read: 

_Off to Eastern Europe. It was the best Mycroft_  
_could do. Should be back in a week or so but it_  
_could be longer. Stick to the plan, and don’t get_  
_overly emotional; she’ll be watching your reactions._  
_I’ll be back as soon as I can get myself out of there._  
_Talk to Mycroft if you need to, meanwhile. Take_  
_care of yourself and be careful. Saying it now_  
_rather than later. Sorry for all this but it was_  
_necessary. We’re expecting her to make a move_  
_soon. Be on guard. I’ll be as fast as I can._

John had read it, wanted to keep it, but knew better. Moving back into the flat had made everything in his life three thousand times more complicated than he’d ever hoped life could be. He is enrolled in a covert operation with the person who knows him second best of anyone in his life. Playing the role of the forgiving husband, twenty-hour hours a day, seven days a week, is going to be exhausting. It’s currently the first of January and six days has already felt like forever. He’d deleted the text in the car before Mary could ask to see it, as she often did (or more often would just take his phone out of his hands without asking), and he and Sherlock had gone through their oddly stiff, formal good-bye on the tarmac, both of them overly aware of Mary’s gaze in her conspicuous red coat. John shook Sherlock’s hand, and despite knowing that he was supposedly coming back in a week or so, felt desolate just knowing he’d be gone that long. Provided nothing went wrong, was what Mycroft had said. 

The plane is shrinking into the distance. Mycroft steps out of his car, phone held to his face, his eyes on John. His entire expression is grimmer than usual. He’s speaking into the phone and all John catches is, “… it’s simply not possible.”

John lets go Mary’s hand and takes four steps toward Mycroft, the question already forming on his lips. 

Mycroft lowers the phone and looks him in the eye, very deliberately not even looking in Mary’s direction. “It would seem,” he says carefully, “that Moriarty is back.” 

Shock hits like a wall. “ _What?_ ” John demands. 

Mycroft’s face is opaque and now he does glance very slightly at Mary, who is where John left her several paces behind him. “Excuse me,” he says. “I need to speak to the pilots. And my brother. Apparently the exile is over already.” He gets back into the car, thumb already moving over the screen of his phone. 

“What?” Mary wants know, just behind him now. “What is it? What’s happening?”

John turns to face her. “Apparently Moriarty is back,” he tells her. Dread is hovering, but the relief of Sherlock being on his way back already is offsetting it. Sherlock has _always_ beaten Moriarty before. Surely he’ll be able to pull it off again. They’ll do it together. 

“But he’s _dead_ ,” Mary is saying, near panic. “You told me he was dead, Moriarty.”

She’s saying this as though it’s somehow John’s fault that he’s back. He chooses to ignore this, as he’s done without half the things she’s said since Christmas now. “Absolutely,” he says. “He blew his own brains out.”

“So how can he be back?” she demands. 

John has no idea, but it does occur to him that she seems overly invested in this, for a person who only knows Moriarty’s name by hearsay. (Is it a case of the lady protesting too much? Is this another lie, then, meant to throw him off the true scent?) “Well, if he _is_ ,” John says, looking into the distance to see Sherlock’s plane turning around, “he’d better wrap up warm. There’s an East wind coming.” 

She won’t get the reference, though she may understand what he means in the sense that Sherlock is the threat, that if she is somehow involved in this, to know that Sherlock will find her out and cut her down, and that John will be there helping him to do it. He can’t help the stab of joy that is leaping in his chest, the profound relief that Mycroft’s mystery operation is not actually going to end up dragging on months or years, like last time. He doesn’t think he could bear losing Sherlock a third time, never knowing when he was going to come back – and left behind with the mess which is his marriage now. 

Mary is watching the plane with him and frowning. John doesn’t care. He’s moving to join Mycroft, ready to meet the plane. Mycroft gives him a quick, unreadable look, but John can feel the relief he isn’t expressing, either. “What the hell is this, then?” John mutters, too low for Mary to hear. 

Mycroft gives a slight shrug. “No idea yet,” he responds. 

The plane lands and Sherlock gets out, coming over to them. He actually shakes Mycroft’s hand, then glances over John’s shoulder meaningfully, and simply gives John a look that manages to say quite a lot. They shake hands, too, but it’s closer, much more affectionate than the previous one was. “I’ll be in touch as soon as possible,” Sherlock murmurs. “Take care, John. Keep your eyes open.”

“I will,” John promises, and Mycroft bears Sherlock off to the car. He goes back to Mary. “Well,” he says, forcing himself to sound something like wry or jovial. “Looks like that’s going to keep them busy for a bit. Shall we go home, then? Best not to keep you standing too long.”

Mary nods, looking grateful. Her hair is windblown and messy and her roots are showing again. John makes a note to book her a hair appointment, maybe a spa day. A late Christmas present, since he hadn’t bought her one. That would be good. And it will also give him time to meet with Sherlock and Mycroft undetected. Mary gets into the passenger seat of the car. “I want to go home,” she says plaintively, not even mentioning Sherlock. 

John keeps his comments about that to himself. Again. “Let’s go, then,” he says, and starts the engine. 

***

It’s hard. Harder than he even expected, to be acting all the time. It’s really more Sherlock’s province than his, and even Sherlock has never kept up a false identity for more than a month or two, at least going by what he’s told John of his time away, after St. Bart’s. And this is deeper, more intimate. It’s his _wife_ , damn it. She knows him so well. She and Sherlock: they both know that he’s a useless liar. He’s learning, though. And he gave himself the out that he was going to be angry sometimes. How far can he push it, though, push the boundary? How angry is he allowed to get before she realises that he hasn’t forgiven her at all? 

And how far can he go with the act? It isn’t until that night, the night of the day that Sherlock’s plane departs and then returns, that she initiates in bed. It’s a moment John’s been dreading; he’s been putting it off by dawdling on his laptop, cleaning things, taking late showers and hoping against hope that she’ll have fallen asleep by the time he comes to bed. Or he’ll announce loudly how tired he is an hour before bedtime and shut the lights off as soon as he possibly can. But now it seems that the jig is up. 

Mary turns toward him and slides over, well onto his side of the bed (and she’s always doing that, crowding him toward his edge, which he never liked). Honestly, he’s never been a huge cuddler, but when he has been it’s mostly been only at those few times when things have seemed absolutely perfect and he felt all right about lowering all of his defences and being completely, entirely intimate with someone – and how many times in his life has _that_ happened? John can barely remember any, frankly. Once or twice with Mary, but not on an ongoing basis. The truth is that he knows very well, has been forced to face twice now, the concept that Mary was never his first choice. It’s not that – she _was_ definitely his choice, but his entire life after Sherlock’s death was second choice. Mary was the oasis in the desert of his grief, the safe conduit past the ghosts of Afghanistan and the jagged hole that Sherlock’s suicide had left in his life. For a safe option, Mary had been perfect. Only when Sherlock returned did he suddenly feel that he’d cut himself off at the knees, limited his own access to that previous life that he’d been so very alive in. He’d been content, even quite happy with Mary, but there was nothing of the spark and flash of life with Sherlock, mixed with an equally content domestic life between cases. Sherlock was, as John had often dryly said, never boring to live with, certainly. He kept things interesting. And then there were the cases, the spikes of adrenaline. Together it had been an almost perfect mix, better than he’d ever hoped to find after the war. He’d realised it again after Sherlock’s very real near-death when Mary shot him, and in doing so shot to pieces John’s hopes for a decent Plan B. 

Sherlock had essentially tried to tell him, diplomatically – and mind, it had taken John long enough to decode those particular words – that John had found the life he’d had with Sherlock all over again with Mary, that John had replaced Sherlock with Mary and should therefore be equally content. John isn’t an idiot, though, even if he’s not as quick as Sherlock. He knows very well that Sherlock’s strange new trend of self-sacrifice continued even into this. Just as he’d done at the wedding, declaring himself unfit to be John’s chosen life companion (which was, of course, what he’d more or less been – albeit he could have found a more platonic way of stating that) and giving him to Mary, that night at Baker Street after Sherlock had staged the reveal, he’d done the same thing. Told John that he’d simply found a better version of Sherlock. Mary, his subtext said, was everything that he was: clever, dangerous, and better still, female. John could have all of what they’d had, _and_ a wife in the bargain. Only the equation didn’t function that neatly and he has no idea if Sherlock even gets that, that people aren’t replaceable. Sherlock wasn’t replaceable and never will be. And Mary is a far cry from him. Even if she hadn’t shot Sherlock, John knows already that he was bored and restless and feeling hemmed in even before everything went to hell. She sleeps too close to him, damn it. 

And now here she is, eyes wide in the dark, the intent there quite clear. He’s on his back and she strokes his shoulder and says softly, “It’s been ages.”

John feels himself go rigid under her touch and tries to make himself relax. “I’m – I’m tired,” he starts, but she cuts him off. 

“Please,” she says, sounding a bit cross. “I’d think you’d been getting it somewhere else all this time. What’s happened to your libido, then? Do we need to look into finding you some… supplements, or something?”

John feels heat wash over his face in dimness of the bedroom. “No,” he says testily. “It just means that I’m tired. It’s been a stressful day. I’m worried about Moriarty.” And that’s true enough, isn’t it? God only knows what’s in store now that _he’s_ back. 

Mary goes still, hand resting on his shoulder, and he doesn’t even like that. Then she says, “It’s been so long since you’ve held me.” It’s wistful. “Would you at least kiss me?”

He can feel exactly what she’s doing, pressing his buttons, and he can’t think of a single reason on earth why a husband who has supposedly forgiven his lying, murdering wife would refuse to kiss her. And he does _not_ want to kiss her. If it comes down to a choice, he’d rather do the other, distasteful as that is to him now. Fine, then. So be it. He hopes she wasn’t hoping for slow, gentle lovemaking, then. He’s going to do this quick, get it over with. Sherlock said something cryptic in their discussions before Christmas, when John had brought it up, about lying back and thinking of England. And now it’s practically come to that, hasn’t it? He’s on a covert operation with the bloody MI6 that involves mustering his forces in bed with his own wife. It’s not as though his body has forgotten, even if he feels no specific desire for her. It’s true enough that he hasn’t had sex in months now. John reaches down and takes himself in hand, willing himself to harden. He gives himself a few strong strokes, then rolls onto Mary, gets a hand onto one of her breasts. He can’t kiss her, but he can close his eyes and attempt to turn off his mind. She’s gasping; he’s not usually so forceful, not that it’s particularly forceful. It’s just a contrast to his usual slow, attentive, gentle style. He’s in her and feeling the curve of her swollen belly against his own, which helps; it keeps his face further from hers. He can do this, he tells himself, just push into her until she’s got off, and then he just has to finish. He normally uses a condom but she’s already pregnant and they hadn’t since the wedding. God only knows if she sees other men. He’ll test himself, make sure he hasn’t caught some sort of horrible, contagious disease from her, just to be safe. She’s writhing and saying his name, getting close. He reaches between them and slides his thumb down, rubbing, and her body shudders, clenching around him. John’s jaw is tight – he’d really prefer to pull out and finish himself off, but he never does that and it would look suspicious, so he stays where he is and concentrates hard on coming. Another few seconds and he’s there, coming with a gasp that has more to do with relief than pleasure. 

His hips have gone still and he waits for a moment, breathing hard, then pulls himself out and flops over onto his back. Even light-headed in the afterglow of his very modest orgasm, John feels dirty, like he needs to take a shower. He’s just had sex with the person who killed the keynote speaker at a world conference on hunger. Again. He feels the shudder of repulsion roll through him and tries his best to keep it off his face. He feels like a prostitute, and it’s his own wife. What a fucked up world. 

Mary is breathing hard against his shoulder, turned toward him, curled tightly against his side and John wants nothing more than to get out of bed altogether. She’s pressing kisses into his arm, saying repeatedly that she loves him, and John makes himself say it back. The words are dead on his tongue, shells of what they used to mean. He counts to two hundred and seventy-eight waiting for her to fall asleep, then is finally, finally able to slip out of the bed and into the loo to clean himself, and he finds he can’t look himself in the eye in the mirror. Surely this won’t have to happen every night. Perhaps he could falsify contracting a disease or something. John shuts off the water that was running at very low volume and goes back into the bedroom. Mary is lying directly in the middle of the bed, leaving him no space on either side. She’s done that before – once having moved so far onto his side that John was forced to go and sleep on her side of the bed. Another time he’d been so ticked about it that he’d gone to sleep on the sofa. Happily it seems he has no other option now. He’ll set the alarm to wake up before Mary and make her breakfast, and maybe she won’t even know, if he folds the blankets neatly. And he’ll call the spa and book that appointment. Yes. Good plan. 

John settles onto the sofa on his back and wonders what the hell went wrong with his life. 

***

Two days go by. The third of January, John is forced to spend with Mary, as the spa didn’t have any openings until fifth. They go grocery shopping and buy some more things for the baby’s room. Mary hasn’t done anything with it since before she shot Sherlock, it seems, so they’re a bit behind with all that, though there are still two months to go. On the fourth Mary goes to her book club and the only other remarkable thing that happens is that they have an argument in the evening. John has just finished clearing the table, and as he cooked dinner, he waits for Mary to possibly volunteer to wash the dishes. No such offer comes, however, so he says a bit sharply, “I’ll just do the washing up, then, shall I?”

Mary has taken herself to the armchair with a book. “All right,” she says absently. 

John pauses in the doorway to the kitchen. “I did cook,” he points out. Their arrangement used to be that whoever didn’t cook cleaned up after. 

She doesn’t look up. “I’m pregnant,” she says. 

The ever-present anger begins to rise in John’s throat. “You, er, going to use that excuse for everything, then?” he asks. It’s already come up in the matter of making the bed, cleaning the loo, cooking, and putting the groceries away, and it’s only been little over a week. 

Mary turns a page, eyebrows lifting but not her eyes, which are firmly glued to her book. Unimpressed. “You did also abandon me for nine weeks,” she says, with that undercurrent of explaining something to someone who is quite thick that he hates. 

John can’t quite believe his ears. “Yeah,” he says. “I know. After you _shot_ my best friend.”

Mary does look up now, an air of alertness settling around her shoulders like a cloak. “And?”

John finds himself spluttering. “What do you mean, ‘and’?” he demands. He can’t help it. “You _shot_ my best _friend_. Who is also _your_ friend.”

“And you know precisely why,” Mary says slowly, as though he’s mentally incapacitated. “It was all explained to you, John. Anyway, Magnussen’s dead now. It’s all over. Time we all moved on.”

“Sorry, _what_?” John says. He can’t believe his ears, even knowing everything that he knows about Mary. “Magnussen is dead because the same man you _shot_ saved y – us – from him. Just so I know, have you even thanked Sherlock for having done that?”

Mary turns another page, looking bored. “No.”

“Or apologised for shooting him?” John presses. 

“No,” Mary says again. “It was necessary. But as I said, over. Let’s change the subject.”

John stays where he is, breathing hard, black spots forming in his vision. “I can’t believe this,” he says, aware that he should be trying to mask his anger better, yet completely unable to do it. “I can’t believe you didn’t at least thank him. I just would have assumed that you would. I mean, he’s kept quiet about the fact that you nearly killed him, and then he basically gave up his freedom and his work to silence the man who could have destroyed you, sent you to prison, as you said.”

Mary looks up again and John is struck by how snake-like her eyes look. Her large, round, blue-ish eyes that can be so filled with fun, with tenderness, now resemble – frightening thought – Moriarty’s. That same, cold, unblinking reptilian look, the same head tilt to the right as she contemplates him. “That was his choice,” she says evenly. 

“But you still could have – ”

“I thought I said I was finished talking about this,” Mary interrupts him, still bored, and goes back to her book. 

John wants to scream with anger. He has to get out of the flat _now_ , before he says or does the wrong thing completely. “I’m going for a walk,” he says shortly, having trouble even forcing these words out calmly. 

Mary turns another page. “Fine.”

“And _you_ can do the bloody dishes,” he snaps. 

Mary ignores this. “Come back when you’ve got it out of your system,” she says. “You know I don’t like it when you get all tetchy. Go for a jog or something. You could do with it, anyway.”

And if that isn’t the last straw, John doesn’t know what is. He zips up his jacket with force and nearly strangles himself with his scarf, grabs his keys and his phone and hits the stairs as quick as he can. He walks five blocks without seeing them, shoes hitting the pavement hard, so angry he can barely think. He wants to destroy something. It’s a dark, dangerous, unhealthy anger and he has no idea what to do with it. He isn’t fit to be around other people right now. Well: with one possible exception. In the sixth block he takes out his phone and calls Sherlock. 

Sherlock answers on the second ring, which is unusual. “John.”

John exhales with something that feels strangely like relief. “Hi,” he says. “Look, I’m – I’m having a rough time. I can’t deal with Mary right now. Can I come to Baker Street tonight?”

“Of course,” Sherlock says, sounding surprised that he would even ask. “You know you always have a room here.”

Something about it, or the way he says it, makes John almost want to weep. He takes a second to compose himself before trying to speak, then says, his voice tight, “I’ll get a cab. Be there soon.”

“I’ll be here,” Sherlock says, and hangs up. 

John heads for the nearest main road, thinking again how relieved he is that Sherlock is still there to talk to, to stay with, to do everyday sorts of things with. That John didn’t lose him again, when he could have so many times now, in so many ways. Just knowing that Sherlock is there, in the world, makes everything bearable. 

***

“So, what we have to do is find the source of the cable broadcast,” Sherlock is explaining over breakfast the next day. “Only Mycroft’s people haven’t been able to track it at all, not even his best hackers. Seems it was heavily encrypted and so far no one has been able to break it.”

“So what’s our angle?” John asks. This is nice, despite the churning in his gut regarding Mary and his worry over Moriarty. It feels like old times, just being home at Baker Street, passing the butter and jam and milk for the tea with Sherlock the way they always used to. Sherlock is particular about putting the sugar in his tea before the milk (he claims that the sugar doesn’t dissolve properly otherwise, which John thinks is a load of tosh, but it amuses him) and so they developed a certain routine. Sherlock adds sugar while John adds milk to his own tea, then he passes Sherlock the milk and Sherlock gives him his spoon to stir it, taking it back after to stir his own. Why dirty more than one spoon, he would have said in the old days. 

Sherlock takes a bite of toast and wipes a crumb from the corner of his mouth. “We look for a crime that he might have committed. He’s bound to show up somewhere, showing off.”

“Fair enough,” John says. It sounds reasonable. “I gave some thought to what you asked, the medical analysis of the head shot. I’d really need to see Molly’s final autopsy report, but I did look into it.”

Sherlock looks pleased. “Did you? Excellent! And?”

“You said he shot himself in the mouth, right?” John confirms. 

“Yes.”

“And you’re totally sure. You saw it.”

“I definitely saw it. He put the gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. He fell and bled profusely all over the rooftop. I was still there for several minutes after and he hadn’t moved, I would swear it.” Sherlock is drumming his fingers restlessly on the table. “Is there actually a chance he could have survived it?”

John is dubious. “Well, people _have_ ,” he says. “Though a shot through the mouth is generally considered a fairly sure thing given that the soft palate is easier to penetrate than the skull as with a shot to the temple, say, or even from beneath the jaw. I suppose it’s possible to miss the brain stem from there, but it’s not exactly a likely turn-out, is it, and besides it sounds like he almost certainly would have bled out even if he missed the brain stem.”

Sherlock nods. “Right.”

John leans forward. “So then, what the hell is this? Is he alive or not?”

Sherlock shrugs. “No idea.”

“But what do you think?” John presses. 

Sherlock pauses, then takes another bite of toast. “I don’t know,” he says, swallowing and frowning. “He almost can’t be, as you say. So then the question is, who broadcast that footage of him? It certainly wasn’t even shot live; it’s obviously a distortion of a still image, and through the distortion filter the voice could be anyone’s. So who could be setting themselves up to look like Moriarty? Who would want to do that?”

It does seem a bit obvious now that Sherlock puts it that way. “You think… Mary,” he says slowly. “But would she, though? Magnussen aside, I thought she more or less indicated that she’d decided to leave that behind.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows lift. “Did she?” he asks. “I don’t remember her saying that, per se. And you know as well as I do that she’s worked within the past five years, though how recently Mycroft doesn’t know for certain. As for this, I don’t know.” He shrugs again. “And it’s not as though we can exactly ask her. But Mycroft thought that something large was in the works before the broadcast, so obviously it took planning, and multiple people.”

“Right,” John agrees. “Or just a few people in just the right positions.” He thinks of the argument the night before. When he arrived at Baker Street, he simply walked in and Sherlock took one look at him and went for the whiskey. They hadn’t talked about it, just sat and drank and talked about other things entirely, pretending that none of it was even happening. John’s memory is a touch fuzzy but he remembers feeling grateful all over again that Sherlock was and still is here. He supposes that if Sherlock hadn’t come back from the so-called dead, perhaps he’d have never found out the truth about Mary, but even that seems a bit too optimistic. Obviously she’s a very good liar, but how long could it have gone on before he noticed a hole in her stories, a fact that didn’t jive with the other facts? Mary had insisted that he’d noticed, but he hadn’t. But he might have done eventually, given time. “So what do we do?”

Sherlock turns the paper around to face John. “Look for a likely crime,” he says. He nods toward a sideline article on the front page. “A man has gone missing.”

John stares at him. “Just… that? Who was he?”

“Is, John. He could still be alive. And he’s no one special, only his wife told Scotland Yard he said he thought he was being followed by a former co-worker,” Sherlock says. 

“Where did he work?” John asks. 

“Not sure yet. Going to find out today.” Sherlock pulls the paper back. “Do you want to see about getting that autopsy on Moriarty? Just to be sure?”

“Er, yeah, sure,” John says. He thinks of the clothes he’s wearing, which are yesterday’s, and wonders if he could swing by the flat to change. It’s so far out that “swinging by” isn’t half as easy as it sounds, but he’d love to change, despite having showered here already. It always feels a bit counter-productive to put the same clothes back on afterward. Mary will be at the spa all day; he needn’t see her just yet. 

“Right, then.” Sherlock looks across and smiles at him suddenly. “Good to have you on the case.”

John manages to find a smile at this. “Good to have something to do,” he says. “Meet you back here later, then?”

“Of course.” Sherlock gets up and collects John’s plate, which is uncommonly solicitous of him, then goes for his coat. “I’m off. See you later.”

“Right, bye,” John calls. He does the washing up – can’t help it, old habit, and besides, Sherlock made the toast and tea and boiled the eggs – then puts his jacket and shoes on and gets a cab to Bart’s lab. 

***

The report is still there in digital form on Molly’s computer, but Molly apologetically tells him that she can’t let him print it or take it out of the lab, as it’s now government property. She lets him read it, though. It’s pretty conclusive: Moriarty was very definitely dead. Brain stem punctured, bled out within minutes. Shock hadn’t even had a chance to set in.

“And you saw the body yourself?” John asks her, pointing his index finger at her. “It was you that processed it?”

“Oh yes,” Molly assures him. “His DNA tests were positive, dental records and blood type were a match. Plus, I mean, I knew his face.”

“Right,” John says, not wanting to remind her that she’d actually dated the psychotic bastard. “So there’s no chance whatsoever that he could have survived it, then.”

Molly frowns at him. “No!” she says emphatically. “John, he was _dead_. There were bits of brain and skull all over the rooftop. Oh, sorry,” she adds. “Bit gory.”

John waves it off. “It’s fine.”

“So the question is, who’s behind this?” Molly asks. “I mean, I knew when I saw it on the telly that obviously it wasn’t him. It’s got to be someone setting himself up to look him or something, doesn’t it?” She tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Someone who wants to use the network he’s already got in place?”

“Yeah, that’s what we’re thinking,” John agrees. She’s got quicker over the years, he thinks. Sherlock affects everyone that way, maybe. “All right, well, we just wanted to check and be sure.”

Molly ducks her head in a quick nod. “Of course,” she says, and John goes. 

He takes a cab to the flat. He could have taken the bus but it’s such a long ride. He misses living right in the heart of Westminster and had got used to it again during the autumn while Sherlock was in the hospital and he’d moved temporarily back into Baker Street.

Mary will be at the spa all day; he’d booked her for a hair appointment, a facial, a pregnancy massage, and a pedicure. He’d gone a bit overboard trying to make it look like guilt, for not having got her a gift for their first married Christmas together. Of course, most couples didn’t have the slight problem of one of them having tried to kill the best man before their first Christmas together, but that’s another issue. John goes up the front steps, turns his key in the lock, and pauses. Mary’s shoes are at the bottom of the stairs leading up to the flat. Think, he tells himself. Is he sure she would have worn those shoes? She does have more than one pair. But those are her favourites, the flat, comfortable shoes that she wears every day. Is she home, then? If so, why? She should be at the spa until at least four and it’s only just after one. Did she stay home, sulking and refusing to use John’s gift because he hadn’t come home? Oh, God. The potential drama could be quite incredible. He starts up the stairs very quietly, using Sherlock’s methods and keeping to the extreme outside of each stair, holding himself taut. He’s always been good at stealth, though he’s never tried it on the flat he’s lived in for over a year now. He gets to the top and stops, confused. 

He hears voices. Whose voices, he’s not sure yet. Two women. Yes – one of them is definitely Mary. Frowning, John eases around the corner and into the sitting room. They’re not there; the voices are coming from the bedroom. (What the hell?) John gets himself quietly closer, until he’s crouched outside the bedroom door. It’s open a crack. He keeps himself low to the floor and peers in. 

It’s a bit of a shock. Mary is lying naked on top of the covers and Janine is straddling her lap, upright, slowly writhing over her. She’s every bit as naked as Mary, her long, dark hair spilling down her pale back. She’s got her hands behind her on Mary’s thighs for balance and she’s unabashedly rubbing herself against his wife. John’s heartbeat hammers in his ears, and not the way it generally does at seeing two women in bed together. Right now it’s more shock than anger, though he can already hear some inner voice asking him if he’s really that shocked. He’d known there could be other men, but he hadn’t thought there might be women, too. They’re moving slowly, chatting. The atmosphere is relaxed, not charged, and they seem extremely familiar with one another. This clearly isn’t the first time they’ve done this. 

“… you’re huge now,” Janine is saying playfully. “I can hardly get at your gee with that big belly in the way.”

Mary slaps her arse playfully, though her tone is drawling and unimpressed. “You’ll manage,” she says, with that same, bored tone she uses with John. 

“These are bigger, too,” Janine comments, pinching at one of Mary’s nipples, rolling it between long fingernails. “It’s only been two weeks and you’re bigger everywhere.”

She’s still grinding herself against Mary, hips rolling and undulating, left hand still resting on Mary’s breast. 

Mary knocks her hand away. “If you tell me my arse has got bigger, too, I’ll slap you,” she says crossly. 

Janine bends over her, and given that the door is just to the right of the foot of the bed, John is afforded something of a view he didn’t need to see. “I won’t tell you, then,” Janine breathes, the laughter audible in her voice, and Mary slaps her in the same bit of anatomy, ripples running through Janine’s flesh. “Ow,” she complains, clearly unrepentant. “Jesus, Sab, don’t be such a twat.”

 _Sab_. Sabrina, then. So: they’ve known each other since Mary’s Belfast days, then? John’s numb brain turns this over. Does that mean that Janine is in on all this? (What the hell!) 

“Be nice,” Mary says lazily, “or I’ll sit on your face and make you eat me. And I might just crush you right now.” She smiles up at Janine, eyes cold and snake-like again. 

Janine shakes her head, but the laughter evaporates from her tone. “Jesus,” she says again, lower. “Sometimes I still think _you_ should have been his sister, not me.”

(Whose sister?) John isn’t following. He didn’t know Janine even had a brother. 

“I agree,” Mary says affably. “It should have been me. We had much more in common that the two of you did.”

“Eh, family business,” Janine says, shrugging. “It wasn’t really my thing but I couldn’t say no when he wanted a hand. People could never say no to him.”

“I never tried all that hard,” Mary says, her mouth twisting a little. 

Janine begins to move again, both hands cupping Mary’s breasts now. “Oh, that I know,” she says. “Only you didn’t want to be his sister, did you?” She’s playful again. “Are you still pining, Sab? I never really thought you got over it, finding out he played for the other team.”

“Go to hell,” Mary says, unconcerned, calves flexing as she arches upward. 

Janine tosses her hair back from her face and bends over again, taunting. “Sure you haven’t made the same mistake this time, then?”

There’s something darker and more malicious in her tone this time and it makes Mary’s eyes narrow, hands and body stilling. “What do you mean?”

“Well, we know about Sherlock, don’t we?” Janine says, with another roll of her hips. “Gay as the night is long, by all accounts. You could have told me that before the whole pretend relationship thing. He’s hot and I’d’ve more’n faked it, if you know what I mean, but he never so much as touched me anywhere outside the PG-13 zone. It was a good day if he touched me anywhere but the shoulder and let me tell you, that didn’t happen any too often. I was lucky if he’d even kiss me, though he put on a bit of a show in front of John.”

“Oh, of course we know he’s not exactly into your type,” Mary says, tone lazy again. “He’s desperately in love with John. Everyone who’s even seen him around John or talked to him for two seconds or more can see that. Sherlock would do _anything_ for him.” She’s rolling her eyes. “And he has his uses. Remember how I got him to plan the entire wedding? Saved you from having to do it, and since the other two were just hired guns anyway, it would have all been on you. But you don’t have to worry for me regarding John – though I’m _sure_ you were only concerned. Bitch.” Her tone is teasing on the surface but hard beneath. 

John is reeling in a second dose of shock. _Sherlock is desperately in love with him?_ No, no, _no_. He pushes the thought away as though actively shoving it from his head. He doesn’t have time to process this. He needs to listen as long as they’re still talking. 

“Sure about that, are you?” Janine’s tone is low, intimate. “Sure seems like John’s world revolves around Sherlock, too. And you didn’t see his reaction when he found out about me. Streak of jealousy a mile wide. I’d be worried if I were you, Sab. You should have shot him properly when you had the chance, because the day Sherl wakes up and realises what he really wants, he’ll turn all that charm on your John and then you’ll see which of their knees hits the carpet first.”

Mary moves so quickly that John couldn’t swear to having actually seen her move, but her strong, wiry hand is suddenly around Janine’s throat. “Say that again,” she says softly, voice as dangerous as anything John’s ever heard, eyes like steel. Suddenly he’s actually a bit afraid of what she would do if she knew he was there. Janine is choking, hands pulling at Mary’s. “Listen to me,” Mary says, voice cold and immoveable. “John is mine. And I control Sherlock. There is nothing he can do to take John from me. He could walk around London naked and John wouldn’t budge. I don’t care if he’s a little too infatuated with Sherlock – he can have his little detective games. But he is mine and he’s not leaving me any time soon. I shot his precious Sherlock and he still forgave me. I _own_ him. Is that understood?”

Janine nods, and John can only see her face at a partial angle but he can see the sheen of tears forming over her corneas as they water. Mary releases her and she coughs. 

“Oh, no no no,” Mary soothes, hands sliding over Janine’s thighs and sides and arms, soothing now. “Shh. You’re all right. You’re all right.”

“Sabrina,” Janine says, a hitch in her voice. “Don’t _do_ that. I hate it when you do shit like that.”

“Then don’t pull those little mind-fuck stunts on me,” Mary tells her, voice still cold under the soothing. “You’re not your brother. No one could be Jim except Jim. And Jim is dead.”

“Right,” Janine says, hands rubbing over her throat, voice still a bit fearful. “I know. Crazy bugger, our Jim.”

Jim. John’s brain receives a third round of shock: Jim Moriarty, she means. He was Janine’s _brother?_ It fits belatedly: the Irish accent, her colouring, her playfully teasing drawl. Now that he thinks of it, her playful flirting reminds him slightly of Moriarty’s creepy-as-hell flirting with Sherlock. (How were they supposed to have guessed that, though? There are _loads_ of dark-haired Irish people with pale complexions, damn it!) 

Mary reaches up and pulls Janine down to her, kissing her for a long moment or two. “You were scared of him,” she says, after. “Of course you were. Everyone was.”

“Everyone except you,” Janine says, and her voice is small, hair spilling over the side of her face. 

Mary’s face is concealed by it, too, but she agrees. “Except for me,” she says. “Which is how we first started this, remember?”

“Mmm,” Janine agrees, legs unfolding to twine with Mary’s. She begins to move against Mary again, rubbing in slow, sensuous rhythm. She changes her tone and the subject both. “Remember the time we did it at Baker Street – in John’s bed?”

Mary laughs. “And Mrs Hudson thought everyone was out and almost caught us at it. You had to hide under the bed!”

“After you’d so cleverly got rid of the boys, too,” Janine says, grinning. “But she left and I made you go down on me for shoving me under the bed like that. Remember the time in Stockholm?”

“With David?” Mary asks. “In the hotel with the strange unicorn décor?”

Janine giggles and kisses Mary’s neck. “No, not with David. The time after that, in that dump of a flat in the north. After you sent David back to England for messing up his hit.”

“He was always a rotten shot,” Mary says fondly. “And yes, I remember. With the double-ended dildo…”

Janine agrees enthusiastically, judging by the sounds she’s making, though John’s lost track of one of Mary’s hands now, too. “Do you still have it?” Janine murmurs. 

“In a drawer somewhere.”

“You’re not afraid John will find it?”

“Please. He’s hardly that adventurous.” Mary sounds fond in the exact same way she just sounded about David, and is leaning away to rummage in the bedside table drawer. 

Janine sits up, pushing her hair back again. “I’d’ve thought you’d have got bored long before now,” she says. “From what you said about it, with him.” She makes a mechanical thrusting gesture with her hips and John realises she’s supposedly imitating him. “Pumping away like a good little soldier.”

Mary bites her lip, evidently debating between reprimanding Janine again and trying not to laugh. The second option wins out, the unattractive laugh escaping through her nose. She nods, dissolving into laughter, and pulls the aforementioned dildo out of a drawer. It’s an obscene thing that John had no idea she possessed at all (but what’s one more secret among the thousands of others?), long and wobbly, ridged and bright green. Mary gives it to Janine and reaches for her again, kisses her lingeringly. “I’m glad you could make it today. John will be out all day and he thinks I’m at the spa. I’ll have to dye my roots again before he gets home, so that he doesn’t guess. I’ve missed you. I thought I was never going to have a proper orgasm again.”

Janine makes a sympathetic sound and lowers the dildo out of John’s sight. He can guess where it’s headed, though. “So you never, with him?”

“Oh, now and then,” Mary concedes. “A couple of nights ago, actually, but it’s never the real thing. Not like this.”

They start kissing again, hands busy between their bodies, and John realises he’s seen and heard all he can take and then some. He feels sick. They sound like they’ve got plenty absorbed in what they’re doing, so it seems like as good a time as any to make his escape. He creeps back into the sitting room and eases out through the door, gets himself down the stairs and out the downstairs door with a minimum of sound made. On the front steps, breathing hard (he’s barely breathed in the past twenty minutes), it occurs to him that he would be very worried if Mary were to find out he’d overheard all that. He hits the pavement at a brisk walk, then breaks into a run. He just has to get out of there. It’s all he knows. So John runs, his head full of too much information to be able to process at once, filled with bitterness and overwhelmed with what he’s learned. He just has to get away. 

***

John ends up wandering aimlessly for the next several hours, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his coat. It’s January and he’s cold but it takes at least three hours before he actually notices. Finally he goes into a coffee shop and orders something, just to warm up a bit. He couldn’t escape his thoughts while walking but they seem to cluster around his head all the more now that he’s sitting, sipping a very strong, very bitter coffee. Its taste fits his mood perfectly. There’s too much to think about. 

First, Mary certainly still is an active agent. Active and then some, it would seem. Second, she is sleeping with Janine, has been doing for some time now. Since she was in Northern Ireland, it seems. Because Janine is Moriarty’s sister. For God’s sake. He’d had no idea. He’d always liked Janine, at least up until that day she’d walked out of Sherlock’s bedroom as though she belonged there, rearranging the kitchen and making John feel completely displaced in his former home. (Baker Street still feels like home and always will, damn it. He’d hated that, having her there. More familiar with Sherlock after a month than he’d been after years.) And that’s another shock for the books, too, what Mary and Janine had said about Sherlock. It fits, though. Reluctantly, tentatively thinking about it now, John can see that it absolutely fits, like the last piece of a puzzle that only makes sense now that he’s been given this last section that ties all the other nonsensical bits together. It would explain everything about Sherlock’s behaviour in the last year or so – since he came back, more or less. How is it so obvious to Mary and Janine? What’s he missed, then? According to them, everyone knows. And they think John’s infatuated with him. Well, that’s true enough, isn’t it? He’s always tagged along after Sherlock like a faithful dog, hasn’t he. Craved him like a drug when he wasn’t there. Dropped everything to make room for them to work together again. They’re partners. They work together. The work he does with Sherlock is more important than any clinic job he’s ever had and he’ll acknowledge it to anyone who wants to know. He can see how people think it looks like infatuation. (Even Janine, who was his wife’s maid of honour for God’s sake, thinks John would be won over if Sherlock proposed they become more than friends.) It’s not infatuation on his part though, is it? They’re best friends. Closer than that. With Sherlock, the regular labels never fit, because it’s _Sherlock_. He’s unique, and John loves him the way he is. As a friend. He’d thought it was like that for both of them. The thought of Sherlock being in love with him – desperately in love with him, Mary said – is startling. He doesn’t really have any idea what to do with that information. 

The rest of it he needs Sherlock for – he has no idea what this means, that Janine was Moriarty’s sister and that they’re working together. With David, too, that prick. He’d thought David was more or less harmless. If his aim is as bad as Mary implied, he probably is harmless when it comes right down to it, but isn’t this just perfect: Mary and her merry little band of criminals. At least John’s managed to establish that Moriarty is definitely dead. Molly’s autopsy and Mary and Janine’s conversation have confirmed that. He supposes he should go back to Baker Street but he still feels so discombobulated about all of it that he’s not sure if he’ll be able to keep control over his face, particularly in light of this new idea about Sherlock’s supposed feelings for him. 

As if on cue, Sherlock texts him. 

_Everything all right? Still coming_  
_back to Baker Street? I’ll order_  
_in Chinese. Pick up a bottle of wine?_  
_Interesting bit of info this afternoon,_  
_tell you when you get here. Find that_  
_autopsy?_

John thumbs over the message, reading it twice, then quickly types back. Of course he’s got to go back. He’ll just keep the bit about Sherlock to himself. It’s never got in the way before, has it? There’s no reason it should now. He’ll just turn a tactfully blind eye to it, the way he’s belatedly realising he’s always done before whenever Sherlock did anything too strange, too abnormal. _On my way. Be there in about 30_ , he types back, then gets up and puts on his coat and goes out to wait for a bus that will take him back toward Westminster. 

***

Almost as soon as he’s let himself into the flat with his old key, wine bottle tucked under his arm, Sherlock appears, hanging over the banister. “John!” He sounds pleased, even happy. “Your timing is perfect; dinner should be here in five minutes. I almost thought you were them.”

John musters a smile at this and holds up the wine dutifully. “Shiraz,” he says, though Sherlock will have already recognised the label. “Your favourite, the Bloodstone from Australia.”

He’s not sure why, given what he now knows (or might know) about Sherlock, he would have gone out of his way to have chosen one of Sherlock’s very favourite and hard-to-obtain vintages, but Sherlock’s flash of smile is worth having gone to that shop two stations past theirs. Past the Baker Street station, rather. The smile fades quickly, though. “What’s wrong?” Sherlock wants to know. 

John shrugs helplessly, feeling heavy and dull and unable to think of a quick response. 

Sherlock clatters down the stairs to the landing, hands on his hips. “John.” He’s concerned. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

John opens his mouth, trying to figure out where to start about Mary and Janine and the autopsy and Moriarty having been Janine’s brother and _Sherlock’s desperately in love with John_ and _You should have shot him properly when you had the chance_ and David and all the rest, but he can’t quite get a handle on it. Behind him, the bell rings, startling him. “I’ll get it,” he says, being closer. He turns and opens the door. 

It’s Kevin, the son of the shop owners on the corner. He grins, seeing John. Sherlock pushes past him before John can speak. “Kevin. Thank you. How much?”

Kevin tells him and Sherlock pays. He and John each take a bag and John follows him upstairs, where Sherlock busies himself unpacking the bags and setting things out. John goes for the corkscrew and opens the Shiraz to let it breathe, then finds two wineglasses in the cupboard and puts one on either side of the kitchen table where Sherlock has laid plates. Everything is ready. Sherlock sits and nods at John to sit down across from him. “So,” he says. “Tell me.”

John’s stomach rumbles and he realises he has no idea what time it is, how much time passed while he was at the café. He forgot to eat lunch and he doesn’t know how late it is. He checks his watch. Just after eight. No wonder Sherlock finally texted him, wondering where he was. “Er, okay,” John begins, picking up his chopsticks and reaching for an egg roll. Having something to do with his hands helps. “For starters, I went to Bart’s and saw Molly. The autopsy is quite conclusive; Moriarty was definitely dead. Molly processed the body herself. Brain stem was punctured, body bled out in seconds. Absolutely dead, no room for doubt.”

Sherlock’s shoulders relax a little. “Good!” he says. “But that’s not what’s bothering you. There’s more. Much more.” His eyes focus keenly on John’s, and that other bit of unexpected, unwelcome information crosses John’s mind, rendering the intense scrutiny a touch uncomfortable. 

He clears his throat. “Well, er, I went by the flat to change clothes and…”

Sherlock stops breathing. “What?” he demands. 

This is difficult. John clears his throat again and looks at the egg roll he’s just put on his plate, poking at it with his chopsticks. “I bought Mary a spa package as a late Christmas present,” he says quietly. “It was for today. So I didn’t think she’d be there, at the flat. But she was.”

Sherlock blinks rapidly, processing, though John has no idea what he’s thinking, what conclusions he’s coming to. “And?” is all he says, pressing. 

John’s eyes drop to his plate, unseeing. “She wasn’t alone,” he says, the words sticking in his throat. It’s hard on his pride, even when he’s already said he wants a divorce. Even in front of Sherlock, whom he trusts above anyone. It occurs to him briefly that Sherlock is the only person he’s ever really trusted – and still does, despite the faked suicide, despite how Sherlock holds out on him sometimes. He still trusts him. “Janine was there,” he makes himself say. “They were – together. In the bedroom, I mean.”

Sherlock’s intake of breath is sharp. “Together, in the sense of – ”

“Yes,” John says shortly. 

“Go on,” Sherlock says, intense, his eyes raking over John’s face. 

“They were talking. I listened for as long as I could, and then I got away. I learned a few important things.” John’s voice is neutral, the words driven out by force of will only. “Apparently Mary is definitely still working. Seems she used to work with Moriarty. Whom she used to fancy. And who was Janine’s brother.”

“Her _brother_!” Sherlock actually sounds shocked. He puts his chopsticks down and picks up his wineglass instead and takes a long swallow. It seems he’s properly taken aback. His eyes come back to John’s after a moment. “Eat,” he orders. “You’ve had a shock. You’ll need it.”

“I’m trying,” John says, voice tight. “You eat, too.”

Sherlock glances at him, then nods briskly. “We have work to do,” he says. “We’ll need our strength.” With unaccustomed vigour, he serves them both portions of everything he’s ordered and pushes John’s plate closer to him. “Eat,” he repeats. “What else?”

John picks up the egg roll with his fingers and dutifully takes a bite. “Apparently David’s involved, too.”

Sherlock snorts. “That moron,” he says contemptuously, which somehow makes John feel a lot better. 

“And Janine called Mary _Sabrina_ , which I figure means they first met when Mary was in Northern Ireland,” he adds. “And they mentioned Copenhagen, and David was apparently with them there, too.”

Sherlock nods to himself. “So that’s when she teamed up with Moriarty. Or I suppose it could have been before. I didn’t realise it was a whole family affair.”

The word _affair_ makes John wince slightly, but he nods. “Apparently, yes.”

“Sorry,” Sherlock says, his voice dropping apologetically, and he looks abashed at his choice of wording. “I… that must have been difficult.”

“It’s all right,” John says stiffly. “I mean, it was over anyway, wasn’t it? And apparently I wasn’t exactly first in the queue all along.”

“That utter – ” Sherlock’s tone is surprisingly vicious but he cuts himself off before he can finish whatever it was he was about to say about Mary. He makes a visible effort to calm himself, lips compressing. He deliberately picks up a piece of chicken and eats it, then asks, “You said they were also in Copenhagen?”

“Yeah,” John confirms. He pushes a piece of bok choi to one side of his plate, then picks up and puts it in his mouth. 

“That definitely lends strength to Mycroft’s theory that Magnussen was in cahoots with them, too,” Sherlock says thoughtfully. “And Janine was his personal assistant… I thought it was a coincidence before. But obviously not; they were all working together. The connection is the media. It has to be.”

“The media?” John repeats, taking a sip of his own wine. The Shiraz is bold and spicy, exactly the sort of wine that Sherlock prefers. He’s grown to like it, too. “Does this have something to do with your missing man from earlier?”

“Yes, precisely,” Sherlock says. “He was one of the principle technicians at the BBC Broadcasting House in Portland Place. I did some asking around today after I spoke with his wife and discovered that his access codes would have given someone full access to all of the standard BBC channels as well as a large number of its corporate partners’ networks. Apparently they share technical support to some extent at the higher levels; it’s all very complicated.”

“So he went missing?” John asks, confirming. 

“Yes. I suspect he’s been killed but we’ll have to see if a body turns up. I phoned Lestrade but he says nothing’s been reported yet.” Sherlock frowns, stops talking, and remembers to eat. 

John feels that one of them should say it. Sherlock may actually be trying to be tactful in not saying it out loud, but… “But if Mary’s behind it, we may never find the body. And without the body, we have no proof of anything.”

Sherlock glances over at him through his lashes. “I know,” he says. “But you’ve come to the same conclusion as I have: this is related to the false Moriarty broadcast.”

“Has to be, doesn’t it?” John says. “So can we assume that every network in the country was hacked, or the access codes or passwords or whatever were taken by force from someone who knows the industry?”

“Seems likely,” Sherlock agrees. “Obviously we know who could have gained access to CAM Global, and now we have the BBC man. The other primary broadcasting corporations in the United Kingdom and Ireland are Channel 4, the ITV, the Irish Public Service Broadcasting, Sianel Pedwar Cymru, and a handful of independents, but as I understand, if the airwaves were overcrowded with all the other networks’ single broadcast message, the independents need not have bothered trying for airtime anyway.”

“So now we’ve got to track down who’s either missing, dead, or a traitor in all the other companies?” John asks, starting in on his fried rice. 

“Yes, I think so, unless they were hacked remotely,” Sherlock says. “I spoke at length with a technician at the BBC. He was very helpful. Forgot his name but he explained how these things work, more or less. I suppose we might as well start with our little group. We know that whether or not Magnussen was involved in Mary’s group, Janine will have had access to all the cable networks controlled by CAM Global, and our missing man from the BBC is almost certainly the one who hacked them. Tell me, John: what do you know of David Gordon? Has Mary ever talked about him?”

John raises his eyebrows pointedly. “What, you think she would have actually told me the truth about someone in her little group of terrorists, or whatever they are?”

“Not necessarily, no,” Sherlock says. “But when you’re maintaining a large, systematic lie of your own, the less one has to lie about everything else, the easier it is.” He catches the look that crosses John’s face at this and adds, “Come on, John – it’s just the basics of maintaining a long-term cover.”

“Right,” John mutters, spearing a piece of chicken fiercely. “It’s just – it’s a lot. It was a bit of a shock today, all of it.”

Sherlock softens a bit. “I know,” he says, almost gently. “But – focus, John. It will help take your mind off the parts you’d rather not think about. David Gordon: what do you know about him?”

John searches his memory and comes up more or less blank. “Uh, I think Mary said he was a friend from university, which I suppose he could have been, only we don’t know if she was even at university after the two years of nursing school in Cleveland. I suppose she could have chosen a new name and studied something else at some other point.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock says, taking another sip of wine. “You’re right; it doesn’t tell us much. Too suspicious to ask now, and I’m afraid I’ve rather alienated him anyway. I’m suspicious of his accent. He looks quite English but he doesn’t sound it one hundred percent of the time. Like Mary, only she’s better at covering it.”

John is lost. “Where do you think he’s from?” he asks, having no idea himself. 

“Possibly Scandinavia,” Sherlock says. “Sweden, maybe. He was in Copenhagen with Mary and Janine – perhaps that’s where they hired him.”

“Janine said that Mary sent David ‘back’ to England after he screwed up a hit,” John offers. “That sounds like he started here, doesn’t it?”

“Not necessarily. He could have already had connections, a place to live here.” Sherlock peers into the box containing the glazed chicken and scoops out a bit more, then pushes the box over to John. “Finish it,” he orders, knowing that it’s John’s favourite. 

John looks down and is surprised to see that his food seems to have got eaten somehow. He reaches for the chicken box and does as instructed. Sherlock is putting more rice on John’s plate and then his own. It’s exactly like it used to be – same food, same company, same warm light from kitchen lamp hanging overhead. Same Sherlock, only he’s a bit different now. Warmer. More open. Softer around the edges, or perhaps John’s just got used to him after all this time. But he smiles more, John thinks. And sometimes his face takes on a pained look when he’s got lost in his thoughts and he never explains that when John asks what’s wrong. Now perhaps he has a glimmer of what that’s about, possibly. He’ll have to watch for it, decide for himself if Mary and Janine were right – not that he knows what to do with that information in the slightest. (Would they ever talk about it? Would Sherlock admit it if John asked? What would John say?) No: there’s no point talking about it; there’s no good that could ever come of that. John will just have to keep his curiosity to himself on that front. 

Sherlock refills their glasses and asks if John wants to move to the sitting room, so he agrees. The fire is lit; either Sherlock or Mrs Hudson made sure that there’s lots of pine stacked and ready to burn. They settle into their chairs and Sherlock tactfully changes the subject to the story of an old case, one that involved John losing his shoes and having had to accept Sherlock’s cackled offer of a piggyback ride through the snow. It’s a funny memory and has them both laughing in seconds, and John feels a tiny amount of the tension seep out of his shoulders. He’ll have to go back to the flat tomorrow, he knows, but tonight he just can’t. He texts Mary awhile later to say that he’s got stuck on a case with Sherlock and that he’ll have to stay over at Baker Street again. He adds that he hopes she had a nice time at the spa and she texts back warmly, telling him that it was lovely. John’s stomach clenches and unclenches, caught between the tension of his marriage and warmth and easiness of sitting in his chair by the fire with Sherlock on a cold, January night. Sherlock was right: it’s good they’ve got a case on, even this case. It will give him less time to think. 

***

John wakes up in what still feels like his own, old bed at Baker Street. It’s comfortable and he slept deeply and well, undisturbed by Mary’s clinging limbs or nightmares about Afghanistan or Sherlock’s death or Mary herself. He never did dream all that much in all the time he’d lived here. He can smell coffee brewing and knows that Sherlock is awake. 

Sherlock. John stays in bed, giving himself time to wake up, plumping the pillows and crossing his arms beneath his head. He still hasn’t really thought about that, the other big part of what Mary and Janine said. On a global scale it’s hardly as important as the rest of it, but it certainly matters to _him_. Mary said he was infatuated but Janine outright implied that if Sherlock were to ever make a move, John would be more or less powerless to resist him. Surely that’s not true. He knows they’ve always been close – closer than most blokes. Closer than most friends, for that matter. He knows that Sherlock is a bit too important to him. Understatement: Sherlock’s death left a hole so big it was never filled, in his life and in himself. Meeting Mary had helped but it didn’t take away the loss, the missing-ness of Sherlock in his life. He’d told himself it was a new chapter and time to move on, but the hole was still there waiting when Sherlock came back. He knows very well that he loves Sherlock. He’s said it, hasn’t he? Saying it out loud was supposed to take the danger out of it. _Yeah, he’s my best mate and I love him. I’ve said it. Nothing to hide there, nothing gay about that. Just my best mate._

Is it really true, though? Alone in his old room, John gazes pensively out the window opposite and watches a crow fly across the blue of the sky. He’s never really asked himself that, has he. Not _really_ , not in depth. He’s always shrugged it off. There was no reason to think about it, not after Sherlock came back. Mary was there, keeping all the lines where they belonged. Only now that’s all fallen to bits and he could very well end up back here at Baker Street with Sherlock again on a full-time basis once this farce is over, the case is cracked and Mary is… wherever she’ll be by the time Sherlock is through with her. By the time they’re both through with her, that is. And somehow he knows already that he wouldn’t marry again, wouldn’t move out again, give up this life with Sherlock that he’d loved so much. He’d always felt so alive here, and so much of that had to do with Sherlock. John wonders how it would even come about. Would it just happen one day? Someone would say something, or there’d be a touch that lingered too long or something, and then they’d just… know? 

John hears footsteps on the stairs and is still half-lost in his thoughts when Sherlock knocks and then opens the door without waiting. The knock is the new part, a token courtesy that he never would have bothered with before.

He’s holding a steaming cup and gestures with it. “Morning,” he says. “Brought you a cup of coffee.”

“Thanks,” John says, a bit surprised, but Sherlock had done that sometimes before. Usually when he wanted to wake John particularly early for some reason and was trying to win John’s good graces in advance. He pushes himself up into a sitting position to accept the cup. “What time is it?” He’s still thinking about the other thing as he reaches for the coffee, his fingers touching Sherlock’s for a moment on the hot mug. (What would have happened if Sherlock had put it on the bedside table instead and bent to kiss him as though it was the most natural thing in the world? Would he have resisted it? Let Sherlock kiss him to be tactful and then had a delicate and awkward talk about it after? Or would he have just… kissed back?) John feels his cheeks warm and hastily stops thinking about it. 

“Just after nine,” Sherlock says, breaking the spell. “I’ve been doing a bit of digging while you were sleeping.”

He’s just standing there, hovering, so John waves vaguely toward the side of the bed. Sherlock sits, looking discomfited, as though he’s not sure of his welcome despite the invitation. “What sort of digging?” John asks. 

Sherlock clears his throat and John notices he was looking at his mouth on the edge of the mug. The heat returns to his face, making him feel confused and guilty. (Has it always been like this and he just hadn’t noticed? Or is it more pronounced now?) “On David Gordon,” Sherlock says. “I found him.”

“Go on, then,” John says, sipping his coffee. It’s perfect. Sherlock hadn’t actually known how to use a coffeemaker before John moved in, more often drinking tea at home, anyway, but once he’d learned how, of course he’d mastered it, and of course he always remembers exactly how John takes his tea or coffee. (Splash of milk in his tea, bit more in his coffee, with which he prefers a dark roast, brewed strong.) 

“He used to be David Jones,” Sherlock says, rolling his eyes. “He changed his name from the most generic Welsh name in the world to the most generic Scottish name in the world. Typical. But you were right: he was from here all along. Or Swansea, specifically, but British, generally speaking. An idiot, overall, but he does have one particular skill.”

“What’s that?”

“He’s a computer programmer,” Sherlock says. He takes his phone out of his dressing gown pocket and turns it to John, showing an image of a scanned diploma from the University of Wales in Cardiff bearing the name of David Jones and his degree. “In other words, a hacker.”

“You’re sure it’s the same bloke?” John asks. No doubt Sherlock has already thought of that, but it can’t hurt to ask. 

He’s right, though. “Yes. I phoned Mycroft. Much faster that way, might as well let his people do the digging; they know practically everything, anyway. He just called back now and confirmed. Facial recognition match.”

“Right,” John says. “Okay, then: so the theory is on track: David obviously could have managed the Welsh broadcasting station in Cymru, Janine took care of CAM Global, and the missing man from the BBC got them. Are we actually looking for anyone else, then?”

“I don’t think so, though I suppose it would be good to find the missing man,” Sherlock says. “I’ve put Lestrade onto that. Now we need to establish how large the conspiracy was. I’m more concerned about the BBC, obviously the nation’s largest broadcasting network, with multiple international and online forms as well. It seems that it could well have taken more than one person to break into the system.”

“So… we need to find out who David was working with?” John hedges, trying to figure out where Sherlock is going with this. “Would it have been David who kidnapped and/or killed the BBC bloke, or do you think he had help on that, too?”

“Let’s think,” Sherlock says, steepling his hands together under his chin as John drinks his coffee. “The day the broadcast aired was the same day I was to leave for Serbia, the first of January. Was that a coincidence? Either way, we know that Mary was with you. We were all at the airport. Though the kidnapping likely happened several days before that in preparation. We need to backtrack. Can you account for where Mary was at all times between Christmas and New Year, John?”

“Er, I suppose, if I give it some thought,” John says, frowning. “But what if they kidnapped him before Christmas?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “No: his wife said he went missing on the thirtieth.”

“What’s his name, anyway? Have you remembered?”

Sherlock makes a pained thinking noise, the wrinkles around his eyes tracking across his face. Only he could have that many thinking-related eye wrinkles and still be so impossibly attractive, John thinks wryly. Then catches himself after the fact. (All right, so Sherlock is attractive, for a bloke. That doesn’t mean anything.) “Philip Dawes. Dawson? Something like that.”

“And Mrs Dawes or Dawson hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary?” John asks. 

“No, but good question,” Sherlock says, smiling without looking at him. His eyes are closed, still thinking. “He went for a walk in the evening and never came home. She phoned the police in the morning of the thirty-first. I think we should go to the BBC today.”

“All right,” John says. “Where exactly? The corporate offices, or the Broadcasting House, or where?”

“The Broadcasting House,” Sherlock says. Clearly he’s given it some thought already. “I asked the man I spoke with yesterday where the technicians who control the actual broadcasts work and I have a vague idea of the layout of their work area.” He opens his eyes and turns to look at John now. “I, er, realise that you still need a change of clothes. Do you want to go by the flat first?” He looks uncomfortable. “Or I could lend something… I mean, I know my trousers would be too long, but a shirt, or something?” He sounds terribly awkward and John actually thinks that his face has flushed slightly. 

He really _should_ go by the flat, he knows, but he just doesn’t want to yet, not at _all_. “Actually, that’d be great,” he says, trying his best not to sound awkward himself and failing miserably. He tries to joke to lighten things a bit. He knows what article of clothing Sherlock’s deliberately left out and decides to just address it. “I don’t really fancy wearing the same pants three days running.”

Sherlock clears his throat again and gets to his feet, not looking at John. He goes to the door. “I’ll have a look while you shower,” he says, then goes downstairs. 

John grins to himself, despite still feeling the prickly heat of embarrassment on his face. Yes: now that he knows, he can absolutely see it, and despite the inherent complication of it, of Sherlock having feelings for him, it’s rather endearing. Problematic. But endearing. Yeah, definitely. He pushes himself to his feet, collects his jeans and goes downstairs in his t-shirt and pants to shower. In the loo, he can see Sherlock’s vague outline through the blurred glass panels of the other door that leads directly into the master bedroom, moving about and presumably finding some clothes for John to borrow. John can’t help grinning as he steps into the shower, wondering what on earth Sherlock will find for him that he thinks will suit him. He’s just rinsing the shampoo out of his hair when he hears the door from Sherlock’s bedroom open.

“Clothes: on the hamper,” Sherlock’s voice says, then he retreats again, closing the door. 

Once he’s stepped out, John towels off and looks at the pile of neatly-folded clothes in curiosity to see what Sherlock’s chosen for him. There’s a pair of plain black socks, a pair of underwear which appear to be made of satin or silk or something slippery that feels expensive and luxurious in his fingers, and a navy-blue cashmere jumper. John’s brain has got snagged on the pants, though. He’s stuck where he’s standing, holding a pair of Sherlock’s underwear and feeling the material like he’s a teenager touching a pair of girl’s knickers for the first time. This is ridiculous. It’s just underwear. Trust Sherlock to have such ridiculous, expensive, poncy pants. He steps into them and can’t help but notice how they feel on his skin, cupping his arse and bits with a whisper of material like a breath. He looks at himself in the mirror and thinks they look rather good on him, too. He also notices that his face is flushed and that he’s sporting a bit of wood. Oh, perfect. Fantastic. John takes a deep breath and tries to calm himself, putting on the borrowed socks and his own jeans. The jumper is last and it feels almost as nice on as the pants do, the cashmere finely-knit and very soft. The shade of blue brings out his eyes and makes them look bluer rather than the grey they can be sometimes. The jumper fits him perfectly, only it’s nicer than most of his jumpers and he immediately loves it. Sherlock _never_ wears jumpers – perhaps he’ll let John keep it. Though, given what he now knows about Sherlock, he’s not sure that asking him for presents is precisely the right way to go about handling this whole thing. Really better just to not say anything at all. Right. That’s what he’d decided last night already, wasn’t it? 

John hangs up his towel and goes into the kitchen in search of breakfast. Sherlock looks up from his laptop and goes still. He blinks approximately eight times, his eyes stuck somewhere in the region of John’s chest, then he looks back at the screen, his face completely neutral. “That jumper is perfect on you,” he says with no expression whatsoever. 

John can’t help but feel pleased. (Sherlock rarely comments on his appearance.) “Thanks,” he says. “Thanks for the loan. I’ve never seen you wear this jumper.”

“I never wear jumpers. It was a Christmas gift. I’ve had it since university days. Keep it, if you want. It suits you much better than me.” Sherlock types something as though he’s only just barely paying attention to their conversation but somehow John thinks it’s at least half feigned. 

“Thanks,” he says again, and doesn’t try to censor how pleased he sounds. “I really like it!” 

Sherlock’s only response is to get up and push down the lever of the toaster, where two slices of bread have already been deposited. “Jam? Honey?”

“No, just butter,” John says. “Those are for me?”

“Obviously. Once you’ve eaten, we’ll go to the BBC.” Sherlock’s eyes don’t leave the screen as he speaks. 

(John has a brief mental image of going over there and putting his arms around the curly head and thanking him properly, affectionately.) Of course he doesn’t do it. He clears his throat and waits for his toast. 

***

The visit to the BBC Broadcasting House is slightly uneventful. After several hours, Sherlock finally learns that another highly-powered technician has been away sick for several days, though he never actually called in. His illness was apparently office speculation only. Sherlock gives John a look at this that says precisely what he thinks of that, and proceeds to ask the employee’s boss seven very different and very precise questions. After that, he concludes to John that the employee is likely also dead. They go to the man’s flat and establish that he has not been there in several days. The rubbish has begun to rot and the bed is neatly made and unslept-in. 

“So, definitely dead, you think?” John asks, sniffing at the milk in the fridge. 

Sherlock gestures at the empty flat. “If not, then where is he?” 

“Off visiting someone?” John tries. “Though I suppose he’d had asked for the time off, wouldn’t he.” He sighs and puts the spoiling milk back in the door where he found it. He turns back to see Sherlock on his knees on the carpet, peering under the sofa. The view is… more interesting than it has any right to be. He’s not interested, damn it, but knowing what he knows colours everything differently. Just knowing that certain possibilities exist now. Sherlock’s arse, and it’s not the first time he’s noticed, is a thing of perfection. Round without being feminine, muscular without being ridiculous about it. It looks better in trousers than is properly fair and John’s always told himself he was just a touch envious, though he’s perfectly content with his own, slightly more pedestrian looks. Everything about Sherlock is over-the-top, exotic, enormously interesting. Exaggeratedly beautiful. It’s true. He’s a beautiful man. John’s always known this. He also knows that being able to appreciate another person’s physical beauty has nothing whatsoever to do with attraction or sexuality. There are women he finds beautiful that he’s not particularly attracted to. Irene Adler, for instance. He can acknowledge that she was a beautiful woman, but not his type at all. John has no idea what his type would be if he were into blokes, but something in the back of his mind is already quietly admitting that his type would likely be limited to an extremely specific model – namely the one whose arse he’s apparently still staring at. Sherlock’s spoken, he realises belatedly, coming back to the present with a start. He’s missed it entirely, lost in his daydreams. “Sorry, what?” he asks, startled. 

Sherlock sits back on his heels and holds something up. “Look,” he says. “It’s a shell casing.”

John crosses the room in two seconds. “What kind of shell?”

Sherlock holds up the spent bullet. “Semi-automatic, pistol, I’d say. Wouldn’t you?” He gives John the shell and stands up. 

John holds it up to the light, squinting. “It’s a .380 automatic,” he confirms. “Would do for something smaller. A Walther PPK, for instance.”

Sherlock gives him a pointed look and doesn’t say anything; that’s the sort of bullet Mycroft has determined was extracted from Sherlock’s inferior vena cava the night he was shot. He looks away. “Do you know where she keeps her gun?”

“No,” John says, with a sigh. “I suppose I can’t exactly go home and ask if she wants to compare illegal handguns, can I.”

“I wouldn’t suggest it.” Sherlock is looking around the room, eyes narrowed, looking for any other sort of evidence. “We don’t know that it was Mary, though. This man, Kyle Cheung, has been missing from work for four days, but the state of his rubbish suggests he’s been out of the flat longer than that. Basically we have no idea. We could break into his mailbox but there are security cameras and mail isn’t generally dated on the envelope anyway.”

“What about CCTV?” John asks. “Maybe we could at least see when he last left, or came back?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “Thought of that. There aren’t any cameras particularly close to the doors. I had a look on the way in.”

“Oh.” 

“Wait, John, you’re brilliant!” Sherlock says suddenly. “The building’s own security system! We’ll just have to get it from the building manager’s office.”

John checks the time on his watch. It’s roughly five-thirty. “Will he still be in?”

Sherlock’s eyes gleam. “Better if he isn’t,” he points out. “Or else we need to fake our way in.”

“Right, fair enough.” John grins at him. “Shall we, then?”

Sherlock grins back and it feels exactly like the old days, only more… well, affectionate. For a second the moment just hangs there between them, then Sherlock turns and heads for the door. “Let’s go!”

The building manager’s door lock turns out to be ridiculously easy to pick. Easy for Sherlock, at least. John keeps watch as Sherlock unrolls his picklocks and gets to work. It takes him less than twenty seconds and John is suitably impressed and says so. 

Sherlock shrugs but looks pleased anyway. He will never be immune to John’s praise, John thinks, hiding a smile. “It was easy. Terrible locks,” he says. He pushes open the door and switches on the light, as there are no exterior windows. 

They search the small office and John finds it first, the drawer labelled “security tapes” (dead giveaway, that) and they find the discs they’re looking for. John suggests they take them and leave, and Sherlock agrees. Sherlock asks if he’s coming back to Baker Street to go through the footage. “Yeah,” John says, “but I should go back to the flat after. You know…” he trails off. 

“Of course,” Sherlock says swiftly. “Then: Baker Street and then I’ll see you tomorrow, I suppose.”

“Right,” John says. If Sherlock is disappointed that he’s not staying again, he’s hiding it well. (Why does _he_ feel disappointed that Sherlock hasn’t explicitly asked him to stay? Perhaps he only hasn’t because he knows John needs to keep up his cover with Mary. Still, though.) He clears his throat. “Get us a taxi, then, would you?”

***

At Baker Street, Sherlock starts playing footage from four days earlier. Thanks to Mycroft, they have a face to match to Kyle Cheung and confirmation that he lived alone, no girlfriend/boyfriend or friends in general, it seems. It’s tedious watching. It takes until they’ve gone all the way back to the thirtieth of December, again. The same day that Philip Dawes or Dawson went missing. Kyle Cheung is on the video entering the building with a bag of take-away food and his work bag slung over his shoulder. Sherlock goes back to the thirty-first, then the first. Kyle Cheung does not leave the building again. Now they re-watch, starting on the twenty-ninth of December to see if anyone unusual entered the building. It’s a five-storey block of flats with eight units per floor, so they’re beginning to recognise the regular faces. They’re sitting at the desk, both hunched forward to peer at the laptop. Suddenly Sherlock pauses the disc at ten minutes past ten on December thirtieth. It’s a woman on her own, not a regular. She’s wearing a short black jacket, black gloves, a baseball cap with a long brown ponytail trailing out the back, dark trousers, and nondescript shoes. The face is hidden, but she’s not tall. Sherlock silently points.

“Not a resident,” he says. 

“No,” John agrees. “Go forward. Let’s see when she leaves.”

That’s easy enough; there’s not much foot traffic in and out of the building at night. The woman makes her exit at half-past eleven, ninety minutes later. She’s furtive, careful to keep her face down, but from the front side it’s equally easy to see the swell of a pregnant belly. About seven months, John estimates, feeling heavy. There’s a fleeting moment when she glances up, possibly checking for cameras. Her eyes land on the single security camera in the lobby and her faces ducks again as she hurriedly leaves. Sherlock goes back and pauses on that precise moment. 

It’s definitely Mary. John knows her face better than anyone’s, save possibly Sherlock’s. “Huh,” he says. “So where’s the body?”

“Excellent question,” Sherlock says. “I’ll let Lestrade know he’s looking for two bodies now. I won’t say anything about Mary. We just need the proofs of her kill, that she’s behind all this.”

Mary’s face is frozen looking directly into the camera and John is staring back at the defensive, defiant face that he married. The cap is something he’s never seen before, nor the jacket. Where did the brown ponytail come from? Is it attached to the hat? “But the other bloke, Philip Dawes or Dawson. He went missing the same day. Could she have got to both of them?”

“I don’t think so,” Sherlock says, frowning. “Mrs Whatever-her-name-is said her husband went for a walk in the evening and never came back, around nine o’clock. Obviously Mary’s very good, but that would put the two murders very close together. I’ll get Mycroft to step up the search on CCTV footage for Dawes. Dawson. I can’t remember. If he went for a walk around nine, it must have taken at least thirty minutes at the very minimum to kill him and dispose of the body. At the minimum.”

“So it could have been Mary,” John allows. He sighs. “I can’t remember where she or I were on the thirtieth of December.”

Sherlock gives him a crooked smile. “Can’t you?” he asks. “I can. Well – I know precisely where _you_ were, at least.”

John feels his eyebrows draw together, thinking, and then it comes to him. “Oh!”

“Right,” Sherlock says. “In the holding cells at the MI6 complex. You stayed with me until they passed the sentence. You were there all night.”

“Yeah, of course I remember that,” John says. “I just forgot what the date was.” He rubs tiredly at his eyes. “So Mary was free as a bird, in other words. Jesus Christ.”

“Speaking of which,” Sherlock says, with a touch of apology, “you should probably get going. It’s after eight. You should at least call her.”

John sighs again. “I really should.” He gets to his feet and pulls out his phone. Strange that she hasn’t texted him to ask where he is. In the days before they were married, before she shot Sherlock, Mary used to text him quite regularly, wanting to know where he was, when he’d be home, if they were eating together or not. He dials the number and thinks of going into the kitchen but Sherlock will hear the call either way, and at this point he doesn’t care, anyway. 

She answers on the fourth ring. “John.” She sounds unimpressed.

“Hi,” he says, trying to sound apologetic. “So sorry I’m only just calling now. Look, I think we’re done for the day. I was just going to see if you’ve eaten dinner already, or if I should pick something up on my way home?”

“I ate already,” Mary says slowly. “You could have called.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry,” John repeats. “It was just a bit busy. Didn’t get a chance. I should have remembered, though. I know.”

There’s a brief pause. “It’s fine,” she says. “There’s no hurry. You can eat with Sherlock if you haven’t eaten yet.”

John hesitates. Is this a trap? “Sure?” he checks. “I haven’t had dinner, but if you’d rather I came home right away…”

“It’s fine,” Mary says again. “I thought you were still in a strop with me.”

Right, the fight. “Well, I still feel the way I do about all that,” John says, hearing his voice go a bit stiff. “But that’s not the reason I haven’t been home.” (Home. Home is Baker Street. Always has been.) 

There’s another short silence on Mary’s end. “I didn’t wash the dishes.”

Now she’s just provoking him. John swallows down his instinctive, angry response. “Fine,” he says shortly. “I don’t care. I’ll see you later, then.”

“Bye.” Mary hangs up without another word. 

John heaves a sigh and looks at Sherlock. “I’ve got permission to stay and eat with you,” he says sarcastically. 

Sherlock rolls his eyes, but his mouth is giving him away, one corner tugging into a smile despite himself. “Okay,” he says, cautiously neutral. “Order in or go out?”

“Let’s go out,” John decides. He’s ticked with Mary on top of all of the murder business and as she’s so graciously told him to stay and have dinner with Sherlock anyway, they might as well do exactly that and enjoy themselves. “Let’s go somewhere nice,” he adds. 

Sherlock is on his feet, pulling his coat back on. “Anywhere you like,” he says, and John feels a spot of warmth bloom in his chest.

He turns to the stairs before Sherlock can see it on his face. “Let’s start walking and decide on the way,” he proposes, trying his best to make it sound like it isn’t a date or something. It’s just dinner. Like always. (Only it isn’t, now that he knows.) 

***

John’s done his best to prolong dinner as long as possible, for two equally strong reasons. However it’s finished now and they’re walking slowly back in the direction of Baker Street. He’s had a little too much wine and he’s feeling it, enjoying feeling less wound up than he has since before Sherlock was shot. John has a moment of realising that he’s happy right now. He has no right to be happy, not with his marriage in utter shambles the way it is, but it’s nonetheless true. The last time he was properly happy was the honeymoon, he thinks, and even then he was a bit too aware of Sherlock by himself back in London. Mary had exasperatedly told him to stop talking about Sherlock while they were on their honeymoon as early as the second day, so John had shut up for the rest of it, telling himself that he’d see Sherlock when they got back. Only once they did get back two weeks later, Sherlock wasn’t answering his calls, sending back one- and two-word texts in response to John’s and he’d got more and more upset about it, to Mary’s ongoing annoyance.

But now he’s got Sherlock back. This is what he loves the best: not the thrill of the chase, as Sherlock puts it, though that’s great, too – but the quiet moments in between. Well, the two in balance, possibly, but this is extremely nice. John thinks again of Sherlock being in love with him and this time the thought doesn’t make his stomach knot up at all. He was worried that it would make things awkward between them, knowing how Sherlock felt. But now all he feels is warmth. Sherlock – _Sherlock_ , who can barely be arsed to speak to strangers kindly, is in _love_ with him. Why would anyone be bothered by that? It’s the best compliment John can think of. It means the world to him. He doesn’t half deserve it, being the one person for whom Sherlock Holmes would finally discover his ability to love. It’s extraordinary. And it’s a bit fantastic, really. Everyone loves being loved, and the love of this particular difficult, brilliant, awkward, extraordinary man, is a truly rare and special thing. 

Beside him, Sherlock is quiet, hands thrust deep into his coat pockets as they walk. Suddenly he begins to laugh. 

“What?” John asks, coming back to the present, worried that perhaps his inner thoughts were showing on his face. 

“Do you remember what you said when my brother said he hoped he wouldn’t have to threaten us as well as Anderson?” Sherlock asks.

John feels a touch of relief. It wasn’t that at all. “No, what did I say?”

“You said you thought you’d both find that embarrassing. Made me remember why you’re my best friend.” Sherlock glances at him, his face full of warmth and an uncharacteristic reserve that almost reads as shyness, though John knows he should know better than that. 

He feels his heart begin to beat faster without knowing why. “I remember that,” he says. “I don’t know how much of a best friend you thought I was being to you that day.” He’s never apologised for that. It was just, after all the build-up of waiting to see Sherlock again, the frustration of his short texts and general apparent reluctance to see John, then finding him where he’d been, how he’d been, he’d been so full of anger and dismay about the entire situation and he’d done the unforgiveable in calling Mycroft. Or unforgiveable in Sherlock’s eyes, at least; John still thinks it was more than justified. His one point of connection with Mycroft has always been the fact that they both care immensely about Sherlock, if they generally express it in extremely different ways. It had been the wrong choice. A betrayal of Sherlock’s trust, at least in Sherlock’s view. He remembers the wary surprise he’d felt when Sherlock had said he was trying to recruit John for the break-in at Magnussen’s office, neither of them knowing how pivotal that night would prove for them both. The invitation had felt like forgiveness. “Maybe I shouldn’t have phoned Mycroft,” he says now, for the sake of making amends rather than because he actually thinks he acted wrongly. “I’m sorry for that.”

Sherlock waves it off. “You were worried about me. I knew that.”

“Okay,” John says. A great hesitation opens up before him, and maybe he shouldn’t trust himself – he knows he’s a little tipsy and maybe it would be better not to, but at the moment he feels so close to Sherlock, so familiar, so at home with him. And the warmth of knowing what he knows hasn’t gone anywhere, his chest still full of it. “Sherlock,” he begins, in a different tone. He stops walking, lips parted but unsure how to word this, or if he’s going to say it at all. 

Sherlock stops a step later and turns back to face him. In the streetlight, his eyes move over John’s face, then take on a guarded look. “John,” he says. “Don’t. Whatever you’re about to say or do – don’t.”

John stops, feeling like he’s just missed a step and is thrown off-balance. Was he that obvious? Could Sherlock see the rising desire in his eyes to say something probably horribly, inappropriately sentimental – even emotional? “I just – ”

“I know,” Sherlock says, cutting him off. His voice is low and a bit rough. He takes a step closer, looming down over John. “I’ve been seeing it in your face on and off again since yesterday. I don’t know what’s changed, but – not now. Not yet. You would regret it and that would – ” He cuts himself off abruptly, leaving the sentence hanging unfinished. 

John stares at him, blinking stupidly. “You don’t know what I was going to say.” (I don’t know what I was going to say, he thinks. Not exactly.)

Sherlock reaches out with a gloved hand and touches his cheek. “Yes, I do,” he contradicts, his voice very soft. “But it’s not the right time.” He turns away, face ducked into the barrier of his upturned coat collar, hidden away and he starts walking again. “Let’s get you a cab. It’s late.”

For a moment John stays exactly where he is. Somehow he feels like he’s been punched in the chest. The light-headed float of the wine buzz is gone and he’s cold. He didn’t even say anything and Sherlock has rejected him. It. Them. John scowls and shoves his hands back into his pockets and goes to catch up with Sherlock, who has stopped a few metres ahead in a circle of lamplight to wait for him. 

He speaks without looking back at John, his breath making frosty clouds in the cold night air. “It’s just that if it happens the wrong way and then doesn’t – I don’t think I – ” He stops again. “Otherwise…”

He doesn’t finish, not filling it in with _Otherwise, I would._ Or, _Otherwise this is the first thing I would choose, if that’s what you’re suggesting._ Nonetheless, it seems clear enough that the end of the sentence would have affirmed whatever John almost said. Or did. He doesn’t even know which it is, but either way, he feels marginally better. He thinks about pointing out that even _he_ didn’t know exactly what he was going to say, but Sherlock knows what the general nature of it was, at least. “Okay,” he says, still uncertain how to feel about this. 

Sherlock raises his hand and a taxi slows at the kerb beside them. He puts both his hands back in his pockets, closed-off, but he says, “I’ll see you sometime tomorrow, then?”

John nods. “Yeah, of course. If you, er, want me.”

Sherlock smiles so slightly that it might not even have been a smile. “Good night, John,” is all he says, and closes the door of the cab. 

John gives the driver the address of the flat and closes his eyes. He feels two conflicting bands of emotion running through himself, one of near-euphoria for some reason, and at the same time he almost feels like crying. He doesn’t know what he was about to say to Sherlock, but it’s almost certainly for the best that Sherlock didn’t let him say it. John’s done nothing but tell himself that it isn’t like that with them for the entire time they’ve been friends, yet here he is, his marriage a disaster – they’ve just spent the day investigating a murder almost certainly committed by his wife – and John is tipsy and turning to the closest form of comfort he can find. Sherlock was right: it would have been the wrong time and for the wrong reasons and John certainly would have regretted it. Their friendship is much too important to risk on stupid, wine-fuelled decisions that have all of zero forethought to them. Somehow the common sense angle doesn’t change the longing welling up within him, though, or the sense of loss as the taxi takes him to the far side of the city, too far from Westminster and Baker Street and Sherlock. _You’re drunk_ , he tells himself. _You’re not in love. He’s your best friend. He’s a bloke, for God’s sake. Snap out of it._

John ignores the voice of reason in his head and allows himself, for one fleeting moment, to imagine having closed the distance between them and hugged Sherlock, imagines Sherlock’s hands coming out of his pockets, his arms coming around John’s shoulders. He can feel it as though it really happened, the warmth of Sherlock’s proximity, can feel it in the pulse in his cock against the silk of Sherlock’s borrowed underwear, but even more so in the warmth pooling in his chest. _Oh, God_. 

When the taxi finally stops, John opens his eyes, pays the cabbie, and lets himself into the darkened flat. It’s after eleven now. Mary, thank God, is sound asleep. She’s on her side of the bed for once, facing away from his, near the edge. The last thing John wants to do is get into the same bed as her. She was still snippy on the phone; he can use that as an excuse for sleeping on the sofa again. That or that he didn’t want to disturb her. Perfect. He strips off his three-day jeans, Sherlock’s socks and beautiful jumper, but leaves the pants. He finds an old t-shirt and pulls it on, then pads out into the sitting room to settle in on the sofa. He also takes a bunch of tissues and has, feeling like a teen again, a furtive and terribly arousing wank, not even stripping off the pants. He’s wanted to do this all day, with the whispered reminder of Sherlock’s underwear sliding sensuously over his bits. He rubs the length of himself through the soft material, feeling it catch and drag over the wet head, then gets his cock out through the placket and begins to stroke, letting the silk or satin or whatever sinful luxurious material it is to pull at his balls as he pushes into his fist. (How would it be, with Sherlock? If they ever got that far? Would Sherlock fuck him? Would he fuck Sherlock? At the moment, in his present state of mind, both options seem equal parts enticing and interestingly off-limits, forbidden territory. He’s always liked a finger or two up the arse – his own, of course. He never would have admitted that to a girlfriend, or Mary, but it’s something he’s pretty sure all blokes secretly like. He’s a doctor. He’s well aware of the existence of the prostate. If it were Sherlock, though… he imagines Sherlock lying behind him, one of those long fingers playing with his hole, pushing inside him – or maybe not his fingers…

John comes with a gasp and an intensity that takes him by surprise. He hadn’t realised he was that close already, but the inherent turn-on of wearing any other person’s pants all day, especially this sort, combined with the easy proximity and genuine love of their friendship, the added glow of wine – he must have been a bit turned on most of the day. It’s quite possible. John lies there on his side, facing the back of the sofa and breathes hard in the dark, coming down from the quick orgasm. Once he’s calmer, he does his best to clean up with the tissues and stuffs them in a ball between the sofa cushions. He’ll deal with them in the morning. At least he’s conclusively answered one question for himself, then. He doesn’t think it’s just the wine, though Sherlock could still be right that the timing is completely off, that right now John would be choosing it more for comfort than for love, and possibly he’d be right. 

_Sod all this_ , John thinks. It’s all such a mess. 

***

He doesn’t end up seeing Sherlock the next day at all. It’s a bit frustrating but it’s also a slight relief. John wakes on the sofa with a slight headache and a dry mouth. Mary is clattering around in the kitchen, probably trying on purpose to wake him. He checks his watch, which he forgot to take off. It’s almost ten-thirty. Oh. No wonder Mary is trying to wake him. He rubs his eyes and pushes himself stiffly into a sitting position. He’s a bit sticky, still wearing Sherlock’s pants. He remembers the ball of wadded tissues in the sofa cushions and reminds himself to sort those once Mary’s left, if she’s leaving. “Mary?” His voice is croaky. 

She comes into the doorway of the sitting room, a hand on her hip. Her eyebrows lift, unimpressed. “Morning, sleeping beauty,” she says, and it’s fairly pleasant – just a slightly underscoring of sarcasm there. 

John gives a bit of a _yeah, well, sorry_ gesture with his hands. “Have you been awake for awhile?”

“It’s ten-thirty, John,” Mary says, as though this is code for _yes, obviously_. 

“Sorry,” he says instinctively. “Got in a bit late. Didn’t want to wake you.”

Mary snorts. “You were snoring to wake the dead. I could hear you from the bedroom. How much did you have to drink last night?”

John tries to remember. It wasn’t really that much, was it? They drank nearly two bottles with dinner, but it was with food and prolonged over nearly three hours. “Not that much,” he says, feeling defensive. “Just wine with dinner.”

Her brows rise even higher. “Must have been a lot of wine, then.” She studies him a moment, then changes tacks. “What are your plans for today?”

John thinks for a moment. “Er, I’m not sure. We’ve got a case on right now.” He tries to find a way to say _If Sherlock needs me, that’s where I’ll be_ without it sounding infatuated. (Speaking of which, he’s not even going to _think_ about the disaster of what he almost said or almost did last night. Perhaps Sherlock will be tactful and just not ever mention it again. Except if Mary and Janine were right, doesn’t he want it to happen?) John makes an effort to clear his head. “I might need to go and do some stuff for that.” It’s vague, suspiciously vague, but Mary nods. 

“All right,” she says. “Be careful.”

“Remember the bit about how I was made captain?” John reminds her, trying to mask his irritation. He hates it when she patronises him like that. “I do know how to handle myself in a spot of trouble.”

Mary sighs and crosses her arms over her belly, looking exasperated. “Don’t start,” she says tiredly. “Seriously. I can live without the fragile male ego thing today. I have an ultrasound at three. Can I expect you to come with, or are you going to ditch me for some case in the middle of it?” 

Oh. This is the one thing that John can’t really refuse. “No, of course I’ll be there,” he says, frowning. “I didn’t know you had an appointment today.”

This earns him another of her unimpressed looks. Mary’s got a wide selection of them. “I’ve hardly seen you,” she points out. “And if you’re not even around, why should I text you? There is actually some onus on you to take an interest, you realise.”

“Right, yeah, okay,” John says, annoyed by the guilt trip. “I’m sorry. But yes, I’ll be there for the appointment. Are we taking the car?”

“If you think I’m taking the Tube or the bus in my current state, think again.” Mary reaches into her pocket and takes out a piece of paper. “We need groceries.”

John bites his tongue, swallowing back the instinctive _If you want me to get them, just ask; don’t just say it and expect me to jump, damn it!_ and reminds himself that he has gone through this farce of forgiveness, though he isn’t exactly playing the part all that well. “I’ll go to the shops. But I need a shower first.”

Mary considers him a moment longer, then nods. “All right. Oh, and my book group is coming over tonight. If you could be somewhere else, that would be great.” She does her scrunched-nose cutesy smile with this. It’s a running arrangement that when Mary hosts her stupid book people, John is expected to vacate the premises.

He has no idea if it’s a real book club or what but he doesn’t really care. It will give him a reason to be with Sherlock without needing to invent an excuse for it. “Sure, fine,” he says. “When are they coming?”

“It starts at seven,” Mary says. 

It seems she’s just going to stand there in the doorway watching him until he actually gets up, so John gets up and hopes that she won’t notice his pants (unlikely; she’s quite observant) and that he didn’t get come stains on the dark material. He keeps his back to her for a moment, folding the blanket, then does his best to walk casually across the room to the en suite loo. She doesn’t say anything until he’s in the doorway, himself. 

“Nice pants,” she says casually. 

John pauses, not looking back. “Thanks. They’re an old pair.” It might be true; he doesn’t know how long Sherlock has owned them. 

She nails him with the next question, though, delivered in that same, lightly probing, casual tone. “Are they Sherlock’s?”

Time for an actual fib. John makes himself turn around to look at her and is startled to see actual fear behind Mary’s eyes. She isn’t just trying to hurt him or accuse him. She really is afraid that Janine’s insinuations are on target. He softens his tone a bit and invents something. “They were originally, but they got mixed in with my things once, years back. They were still there in my old room at Baker Street and I needed a fresh pair and hadn’t had time to come home, so… yeah.”

Mary lets her eyes linger on them. “They’re nice on you,” she says after a moment. “We should get you some more like those.”

John shrugs, determined to sound casual no matter what. “Sure, if you want. They’re comfortable enough.”

“I like them,” Mary says. She crosses the room then, kisses him on the cheek (he’s a bit relieved that it’s only the cheek, if surprised), then says, “Go have your shower. I’ll make you a cup of tea.”

John manufactures a smile for that. “That’d be great. Thanks.”

Mary gives him a pained smile that says that she’s still well aware that things aren’t really okay between them, that the argument is still there, unresolved, but she goes into the kitchen without another word. John steps into the shower and wishes she would just act like the person he just saw on a security tape last night having clearly caused the – well, they haven’t proved it’s murder yet, but given her past record, does it even matter in this case? – the disappearance, then, of Kyle Cheung. The person who apparently cheats on him regularly – with _Moriarty’s_ sister. God only knows what she’s planning on tonight with her book group – is that Janine again, then? Thinking of all of this brings back his anger and clears away the momentary confusion. He doesn’t even know what he wants. Some small part of him still wishes she was the person he thought he married, though he knows he wasn’t even happy during that first month of actually being married, cut off from Sherlock. Another part of him wishes that he could backtrack to the time before Sherlock threw himself from the rooftop of St. Bart’s and re-do that whole business the right way this time. And still another part of him, despite his confusion and the increased clarity of sobriety, can accept that everything is the way it is, and that he wants to leave all of it but Sherlock behind. Move back into Baker Street and… see where things go. Yes. As he thinks this, John realises that above all, this is it: this is what he wants. He’s not clear on the exact details of when or… how, precisely, but he’s sure of this one thing. 

He wants Sherlock. 

***

Sherlock hasn’t been in touch by the time John’s got the shopping, so John texts him.

_Hey, sorry, but Mary’s got another_  
_ultrasound this afternoon and I’ve_  
_said I’ll go. She’s got the book club_  
_coming over tonight, though. Not sure_  
_what that means. Should I try to get back_  
_here to see what’s going on? (Do you_  
_want to come?) Let me know._

It takes a few minutes for Sherlock to respond, but then he does. 

_It’s risky. It’s up to you. Do you want_  
_me to come? Seems less suspicious if it’s_  
_only you if you’re caught. You could say_  
_you forgot something important or something._

That’s true, although if it’s Mary and Janine, no excuse, no matter how sound, will get him out of that. He’s also a bit disappointed, even though it makes sense. John debates with himself for several minutes about a potential answer, then gives up and decides to text back later, and goes to unpack the groceries instead. 

***

He’s not sure why Mary wanted him to go along for the ultrasound; she made him wait outside the room anyway, for some reason. It’s annoying. Was he just along to entertain her while she waited all that time, then? When she comes out, she’s smiling but looking a bit vague and more or less deflects all of John’s questions about it. Her smile bothers him somehow; it seems much too smug, too self-satisfied. He doesn’t say anything, however; just goes back home with Mary and does his best to generally avoid conversation, poking around on Facebook and eventually going into the kitchen to start making dinner. Mary is in the bedroom, doing what he doesn’t know. Napping, possibly? She _is_ seven months pregnant; that makes sense. John makes something resembling chicken stir-fry. He doesn’t have names for the things he makes; he’s just grilled some chicken breast and vegetables with soy, hoisin sauce, and leftover rice that he found in the fridge. He knocks lightly at the bedroom door then opens it. 

Mary is sitting on the bed with her laptop, which she closes casually as he sticks his head into the room. “Dinner’s ready,” he says, trying not to frown. 

“All right,” Mary says neutrally. 

“I thought you might be sleeping.”

Mary shrugs and smiles. “You thought wrong.”

John bites back a comment about how she could have done something, anything to contribute to the dinner-making process, but it’s fine. He doesn’t even care, he realises. It’s just the principle. He gives up and goes back to the kitchen, gets out a single plate, and serves himself. 

When Mary comes out of the bedroom a few minutes later, she looks at the table. “Where’s my plate?”

John finishes swallowing a mouthful of broccoli. “In the cupboard. I didn’t have time to set the table while I was cooking.”

Mary goes to the cupboard and extracts a second plate. “Oh, charming,” she says sarcastically. “I love it when you get passive-aggressive.”

“I love it when you let me do all the work.” John continues eating, trying to loosen his jaw enough to chew properly. 

She doesn’t reply to this, but digs noisily through the silverware drawer, procuring a knife and fork, then sits down as far from him as possible. “It’s six-thirty,” she says. 

“I know.”

“My book club are going to start arriving soon.”

John lifts his brows without taking his eyes off his plate. “It starts at seven, you said. If anyone arrives half an hour early, they’ve got to expect that the people who live here still live here. I assume they know I exist. Wasn’t one of them at the wedding? Alice or something?”

“Allison. Yes, John, she was one of the bloody bridesmaids,” Mary says acidly. 

A hired bridesmaid, to hide the fact that Mary doesn’t exactly have a ton of real friends. He gestures with his fork, still avoiding her eyes. “There you are, then. They know I exist. I do live here. I’ll leave when I’m done eating my bloody dinner.”

Mary exhales audibly, as though every single thing about him frustrates her, and says nothing. 

John eats, and while he really wants to do nothing but finish as quickly as possible, he makes himself eat at a normal speed and lets the silence be as awkward as it wants to be. When he’s finished, he takes his plate to the kitchen sink and doesn’t rinse it. Now he’s just being petty but he’s well beyond caring about that. He leaves the frying pan on the stove and makes no effort to clean the counter. If Mary really does have a bunch of people coming over to talk about a book, then she can tidy up. If it’s only Janine, as he suspects, then it won’t matter anyway, will it? It’s not as though Janine will be inspecting the kitchen. He thinks of Janine and how her attempts to make him jealous were deliberate, of how she noticed that it worked and was pleased, and wants to punch her. Although he also remembers what she said about Sherlock never touching her anywhere outside the ‘PG-13 zone’, she’d said, and how relieved he’d been to hear that. Okay: so he was jealous. Fine. He’s the one Sherlock is in love with, damn it. If anyone should be touching him, it’s him and no one else. John pulls on his jacket and leaves the flat without another word to Mary. 

Downstairs, he debates what he should do with himself and finally determines to hide by the Whitneys’ bins. There’s a small alley behind their house and there’s a pillar between the bins and the street with a space between just small enough for John to squeeze into. As he does so, he thinks to himself that it’s a good job he’s not taller; Sherlock would never have fit in here without needing to crouch and there’s no room for that. John checks the time and waits. Six fifty-one. 

It’s a long nine minutes, but his patience is rewarded: just after seven, Janine arrives, sauntering down the pavement from the direction of the nearest Tube station, a faint smile playing about her lips. John feels his teeth clench. He waits another five minutes, then eases out from his cramped space and lets himself stealthily back into his own flat. This time he’s much more conscious of the danger and works even harder to keep himself silent as he climbs the stairs to the upper level. He can hear their voices; they’re still in the sitting room. 

“… thought he was never going to leave,” Mary is saying in exasperation. “I told him they were coming at seven and he just sat there, eating as slowly as possible.”

“Well, you can’t expect him to be happy about getting kicked out,” Janine says reasonably. “Especially not if you’re fighting.”

“He _always_ gets kicked out,” Mary says, unmoved by this argument. “He knows by now that he has to leave when my book club comes.”

“I’m a whole ‘book club’, am I?” Janine asks, teasing. “I thought I was baking lessons.”

“That was before, idiot,” Mary says, not as playfully as she might have. “You’ve been a book club for months already.”

“I’ll try to keep up,” Janine drawls, not sounding apologetic in the least.

Mary gives a huff of laughter through her nose then. Next John hears the sounds of kissing and thinks that this is the second time Janine has kissed someone he loves, or has loved, in his hearing or sight. At least she doesn’t know he’s there this time. He still wants to punch her, though she doesn’t deserve half as much as his lying, cheating wife does. The sounds continue. (When are they going to go to the bedroom?) John listens through gritted teeth.

“How long have we got?” Janine asks breathlessly after a bit. 

“A couple of hours, unless he’s off sulking with Sherlock.” Mary sounds irritated. “He barely needs an excuse these days. Though to be fair, they do have a case that’s going to take them a rather long time to solve, isn’t it?”

Janine laughs. “Has David dealt with both bodies yet?”

Now Mary sounds more annoyed than ever. “No,” she says. “The first one, yes, though it was sloppy – he left it in a skip beside the park where I killed him. Apparently the body is in pieces. Not sure how he managed _that_ without being seen and I have no idea how the smell hasn’t drawn attention yet, but so far, so good. He was positive there wasn’t any CCTV in the part of the park where he was, or Sherlock’s damned brother would have been onto it by now.”

“That was smart,” Janine points out. “What about the other one? The Chinese bloke?”

John hates that they’re not even using the names of the men that Mary’s killed. How dehumanising. It occurs to him that he never knew the names of any of the Taliban members he’d have shot back in Afghanistan, but then, he hadn’t done much shooting either, had he? Of course he’d been called onto the line when the fighting had been thick, and his aim on the field had been widely praised, linked to his steady hands in surgery, but the surgery was where he’d belonged. And right or wrong, that’s war: you never see your enemy’s face. It’s not an option. Mary had the option. They’d researched these kills, chosen the specific men with the access codes and the correct positions to get them the cable access they’d needed to broadcast the false Moriarty message. They could have learned their names before Mary had dispatched them. 

“The body is on the roof,” Mary says. “David was supposed to dispose of it yesterday already and he hasn’t. Says he got busy doing something else. I think I made it clear that if he doesn’t getting busy doing what he’s meant to be doing, there will be a third body to clean up, and I can’t exactly be expected to do that in my state, can I?”

“Not really,” Janine agrees. 

“You’ll have to do it if David doesn’t,” Mary says. 

A small silence falls. John can picture the look on Janine’s face. “What?” she says, sounding appalled, her tone confirming the look John imagined. “Sabrina! I don’t do that sort of shit! I’m a technician! Remember? The one who’s running the show at CAM Global at the moment?”

John hears the sound of a slap. “You’ll do as you’re told,” Mary says sharply. “This is teamwork. Have you forgotten? You want to reap the benefits of running the world’s largest underground criminal network, then we all have to get our hands dirty. I know this is David’s task, but if he isn’t up to completing it, we’ll eliminate him and meanwhile, someone else will have to take care of the body. I know this isn’t your job! But we’ll just have to make do. You know I normally take care of this myself. I just can’t be hauling corpses while I’m seven months pregnant, for God’s sake.”

John eases forward a step to peer around the corner. Janine is holding a hand to her face but nodding, long hair falling forward to hide her expression. “I know,” she says, the play gone from her voice. “I’m sorry. I’ll do it if he doesn’t. I just – I don’t know how. You’ll have to tell me what to do.”

Mary puts her hands on Janine’s face and draws her close, kissing her forehead. “I will,” she promises, her voice much gentler. “Meanwhile, maybe David will actually do what we pay him for and dispose of the body himself.”

Janine nods. “Okay.”

Mary kisses her again. “Hey,” she says, warm concern in her voice. “Come on. You’re okay. I’m sorry. It’s just the hormones, and being worried about everything… John spending too much time with Sherlock and knowing that there are two highly visible bodies out there because of David’s incompetence… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have hit you.”

“No,” Janine says, though it’s soft, not defiant. “You shouldn’t have.” But she turns her face up and lets Mary kiss her mouth, hands going to Mary’s swollen belly and breasts. (Despite this, John has it in him to feel sorry for her.) “I can’t believe you slept with him,” Janine says between kisses. “He’s such a bloody loser.”

“Stop being jealous,” Mary says, as though it’s a reminder she has to give on a regular basis. “He has his uses. And you have your toys on the side. Never forget.”

“Yeah, but David,” Janine complains. “His only redeeming feature is that he looks so much like John that John’ll never know it’s not his kid.”

John stops breathing for a moment. _What?_ Aloud, Mary echoes him. “What?” She’s staring at Janine. “David is not the father of the baby. Are you out of your mind?”

John is aware of his pulse thudding against his ears, listening very hard. Janine looks confused. “But you said it wasn’t John’s,” she says, looking unsure of herself. “Sab… you did say that. You said before Christmas that you’d known since September.”

“Of course it’s not John’s,” Mary says, rolling her eyes. “It’s Charles’ baby. Why do you think I needed him dead?”

John feels like his brain has been wiped blank with shock. He retreats back into the shadows of the entranceway, leaning hard against a wall, the truth bleating through his head like a klaxon alarm. _Charles_. Charles Augustus Magnussen. The man that inspired more hate in himself or Sherlock than Moriarty himself. The man who flicked him. The man that Sherlock killed for having flicked him – resulting in Sherlock’s arrest and consequent exile, though Mary and Janine unwittingly saved him with the timing of their cable hack and Moriarty’s false resurrection from the dead. And Mary has been carrying _his_ child. (Thinking of it that way, knowing that Magnussen has been inside Mary probably hours away from John himself, John shudders violently and has to suppress a wave of nausea. The same man who pissed in the fireplace at 221B Baker Street has been inside his _wife_ , exactly where John’s cock has been. Horrifying, repulsive, nauseating thought. It’s almost as though he’s had sex with Magnussen by proxy.) How could Mary have ever, _ever_ been with him?? But this explains it perfectly: if Mary had worked with Magnussen in Copenhagen, she would have known that he didn’t have any physical papers on her. She went to Magnussen’s office that night, a month after the honeymoon, to demand his silence about the baby. Somehow Magnussen had found out that the child was his and was using that as blackmail against Mary. 

It all fits: if Mary had shot Magnussen in front of Sherlock, Sherlock would have known she had secrets to hide and would have inexorably worked out what they were. She chose to shoot him to ensure his silence, and when Sherlock miraculously survived and ensured his own safety at their confrontation with her projected image against the empty houses in Leinster Gardens, she had been forced to admit her past as an assassin. Difficult to hide that fact when Sherlock Holmes has caught you dressed like a ninja, holding a gun and a silencer over the head of the likes of Magnussen. She’d let them think that was all there was, determined to keep the secret about the baby, at least. Because that was the only thing that had had even the slightest bit of sway over John’s decision to not leave her that very night. She was pregnant with his child. It had therefore needed thinking over. If she had simply shot Sherlock and that was all there was to it, he would have filed for divorce the next day, and she knew it. 

Janine is reacting quite vocally, jarring John out of his thoughts and back into the present. “But – Sabrina!” She sounds as shocked as John does, and somehow, as hurt or more. “You weren’t with him – you were never sleeping with him. Not _him_. You knew what he was like! This is the man who has made my life utter hell since you made me start working with him. Flicking me in the eye and all that shit.”

John can’t see them now so he doesn’t know what Mary’s face is doing, but her voice is patient, as though speaking to a child. “He was my employee,” Mary says. “He was part of our organisation. He was your brother’s employee first, and then he became mine. Obviously we worked very closely at times. You had to have known it was happening, back in Copenhagen.”

“But – not _Cam_ ,” Janine repeats. “Sab, he’s filthy! I can’t believe you slept with him. I can’t believe my mouth has been where his junk has been. And anyway, what are you going to tell John when the kid ends up seven feet tall like Cam? It’s not like you or John are exactly giants.”

She sounds bitter, echoing John’s very thoughts about all that. “I hate that short form,” Mary says. “Those are his initials, not his name. And he wasn’t filthy. He just had no respect for anyone or anything. It got quite tiresome by the end. When he found out the child was his, he wanted it acknowledged publicly, wanted to have access to her. He was threatening me. He let it go to his head, thinking he was king of the world, with all his access to all that information. The freak.”

 _Freak_. The word reminds John of Sherlock, of the likes of Sally Donovan and her judgements. Of everyone else in the world who has ever made Sherlock feel small, excluded, unwanted. He hadn’t realised that Mary was exactly the same sort of person – though it was there in the small things, wasn’t it? _I’m not John, I know when you’re fibbing_ , refusing to be impressed by him, by his fame. Denying it, even. _See, that does happen_. John feels the last bit of love he might have had left in his heart for Mary fade away, even though it was Magnussen she was insulting, not Sherlock – Magnussen, whose child she is carrying. 

“He wasn’t the king of the world,” Janine mutters, sounding defiant now. “That was my brother. He was the king.”

“The king is dead,” Mary reminds her, voice soft and dangerous. 

Janine bows her head, nodding her acceptance, her inability to do anything about this very clear fact, and then says it aloud, acknowledging it. Accepting it. “Long live the queen.”

Mary smiles at her, her eyes heavy-lidded and approving. “Good girl,” she says, gentle now. She takes Janine’s face in her hands and kisses her forehead again. “Enough business. Let’s go to the bedroom.”

Janine acquiesces and they go, leaving John in the entranceway with his thudding heart, the taste of bitterness metallic on his tongue. 

***

John lets himself quietly into Baker Street. He didn’t text Sherlock to say he was coming. It’s very late, past one. He spent hours just walking again, trying to clear his head, calm down. He can’t understand why Janine is still there, when Mary treats her the way she does. Janine was behind the broadcast, then, coordinating it all from CAM Global while Mary had been with him, saying the hardest goodbye of his life to date before Sherlock’s plane left on its aborted trip to Serbia. It all makes sense now, except how Janine tolerates being treated that way. He actually does feel grudgingly sorry for her, though it’s impossible to understand how she puts up with it. If she does, it’s really her own fault. Mary’s tried out some of that style of manipulation on him, though only verbally. The passive-aggressiveness, the not-so-subtle questioning of his abilities and choices. He remembers the morning they went to the crackhouse to rescue Isaac Whitney, the neighbour kid. How Mary had sarcastically mocked him for taking the tyre lever, only to then feel badly, perhaps, and try to take it back with the too-late compliment. He’s never put up with that kind of crap from her or anyone else. Lestrade said once that he didn’t know how John put up with some of Sherlock’s crap, but while Sherlock always expected a lot from John, he never failed to let John know he was respected, needed, that he knew what John was capable of and that he valued it. John’s always known that. And besides, he _has_ combed Sherlock down more than once and Sherlock’s always taken it and backed down. Not that that’s happened in ages, not since Sherlock’s return. Maybe it stopped when he realised his feelings for John, if he’s aware of them. 

John goes quietly up the stairs, bypassing the sitting room and going right up to his old bedroom. He’s just undressing, stripping down to his pants and t-shirt when he hears footsteps downstairs, then on the stairs leading up to the top storey of the house. 

“John?” Sherlock’s voice sounds rough with sleep: John’s woken him, then. 

He goes to the partially-open doorway and looks down the stairs. “Yeah, hi,” he says. “Sorry if I woke you coming in.”

Sherlock is in his pyjama pants, shirtless. In the moonlight coming in through the window on the stairs, the scar from the bullet wound stands out in relief against his pale skin. He waves John’s comment off. “It’s fine,” he says. “Are you all right?”

(Could he feel it, even in his sleep?) John gives a half-smile. “Sort of,” he says. Then he releases his breath. “Not really,” he amends, admitting it. 

Sherlock makes another vague sort of gesture. “Do you… want to talk about it?”

“Now?” John asks. “It’s the middle of the night.”

“Does it matter? We’re both awake.” Sherlock squints up at him, probably not really able to see John’s face as he’s silhouetted against the light from the lamp he turned on in the bedroom. 

“I know,” John says. “But you were sleeping. I don’t need to keep you up.”

“Please,” Sherlock says, as though this is the feeblest excuse he’s ever heard. “I’ll put the kettle on.” He turns and pads into the kitchen. 

John hesitates a moment, then finds an old dressing gown and puts it on over his t-shirt and underwear and goes down to the kitchen. Sherlock has found a dressing gown, his old blue one that was John’s favourite, and is getting cups out of the cupboard. John sits down. “How did you know I was upset?” he asks quietly. 

Sherlock stops and looks back over his shoulder at him. “You’re here,” he says simply. 

Fair enough. John looks at the table. “So, the book club _was_ Janine, as I suspected,” he says. 

The water is boiling in the kettle. Sherlock turns it off, glances at him, then pours water into the teapot and brings it to the table. He sits down across from John and laces his fingers together in front of him, giving John his full attention. “You managed to stay and listen?” 

“I hid in the alley, then went back inside, yeah,” John says. He points at the teapot with one finger. “What kind of tea did you make? I don’t want to be awake all night and I suspect I’m going to have trouble sleeping as it is, so if it’s caffeinated…”

“It isn’t,” Sherlock says. “Chamomile. It should help you sleep. I just thought you might like to talk first. Get it out.”

John gives him a quick smile at that, not quite meeting his eyes or seeing the smile all the way through, but he does appreciate it. Sherlock can be immensely thoughtful when he puts himself to the task. “I learned some things,” he says, the smile fading half-grown. “David is definitely working with them. For them. He was supposed to go and clear up the bodies after Mary killed them.”

“She admitted that she killed them?” Sherlock lifts the lid of the teapot and sniffs, then replaces it and fills both their cups. 

“Yeah,” John says. “There was a lot about how she would have cleaned up herself, only she couldn’t be expected to in her condition. And here I thought she was only using it to get out of doing the washing up.” This is weak humour, but Sherlock smiles slightly. 

“You said he was supposed to clean up? Did he not?”

“The first one, Dawes or Dawson, is apparently in a skip in the park where Mary killed him. The second one is apparently still on the roof of the block of flats. I have no idea how Mary lured him up there, but it seems that’s where she killed him.” John picks up his cup and takes a sip. It’s still very hot but it’s nice. He doesn’t usually drink herbal teas, but Sherlock just brewed it lightly, just enough to make it refreshing, almost soothing. It’s nice. The warmth alone is comforting, somehow, and he finds he does need comfort at the moment. Sherlock’s presence is the greater comfort, of course, but it’s easier to think of it in terms of tea. 

Sherlock nods, thinking this over. Then he looks at John over their cups, his eyes very blue in the kitchen light. “What else?” 

He always knows. John holds his gaze for a moment, then lets his eyes drop to his tea. “She _was_ going to kill Magnussen before you interrupted,” he says. He feels heavy. 

“Interesting,” Sherlock says. “Go on.”

“Mycroft was right. They did know each other before. They were working together in Copenhagen. He worked for Moriarty before he died and then he worked for Mary when she took over.” John talks around the other thing, because Sherlock should know this, too. 

“All right,” Sherlock says, still waiting. He always knows when John is holding out. He’s patient, not pushing for it. 

John makes himself say it. (It’s humiliating, damn it.) “He _was_ threatening her,” he says. “But not for the reasons we thought. He was threatening to tell me that he was the father of her child.”

Sherlock stares at him, incredulous. “Why would he do _that_? Who would have believed such a preposterous lie?”

John gives a painful, tight-lipped smile. “Well, Mary, for starters,” he says, the words sounding dry. “Since it wasn’t a lie.”

Sherlock’s expression grows even more disbelieving, almost blank. “Seriously?” 

“Yup.” John looks away, unhappy, and takes a sip of tea. “Took a bit to swallow, I have to say. That, and I feel like I need to take about seven thousand retroactive showers.”

Sherlock grimaces. “No doubt,” he says, voice full of understanding. “Oh, _God_. John. I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah,” John says, looking at his tea again. “So I am, though I suppose that makes at least one aspect of this simpler. I just – I mean, she knew that, right? She knew that if I knew the child wasn’t mine, I never would have stayed with her after she shot you. No matter what her reasons were. But there was a child. My child, I thought. I know perfectly well that I could have shared the custody, still raised her myself even with a divorce, but you don’t want to make decisions like that lightly.”

“Of course not,” Sherlock says. He hesitates. “You must be disappointed.” He frowns. “Sorry, that’s probably… a bit of an understatement.”

“It is and it isn’t,” John says, still feeling horribly conflicted about it. “It wasn’t exactly my aim or hope to have a kid so early on. Or at all. We hadn’t even talked about it, having kids. We’d always used protection. But you’re supposed to be happy, right? And I was, once I got used to the idea, more or less. I still wished it hadn’t happened so soon into the marriage and I wondered how it could have done, given how careful we’d always been, but these things do happen. I worried about how much it would keep me from our work, to be honest. In that sense it’s a slight relief, though I feel like a cretin for saying so. It does make it easier in terms of Mary, though.”

“Perhaps,” Sherlock agrees carefully. 

“Janine didn’t exactly like it, either,” John says. “That’s something else – Mary is awful to her. Abusive, I’d say.”

“That is unsurprising,” Sherlock says immediately. “Mary – sorry, John – but Mary is frequently manipulative even in small things. In her… truest form, perhaps, I find it easy enough to believe that she could do much worse.”

John throws him a look. “Coming from the man who had a ready-made list of people who hate her even before she shot you, _that_ doesn’t surprise _me_.”

“Fair,” Sherlock admits. “I wonder why Janine puts up with it.”

“Who knows,” John says. “People do crazy things for the people they love.” He says it without thinking, but the silence that follows speaks enormous volumes. He steals a look at Sherlock, who is looking at his own tea, unspeaking, and wishes he could bite back the thoughtless words. (Should he say something?) He’s well aware – now – that practically everything Sherlock has done in the past three years has been motivated by love for him. From the moment he jumped off the roof of St. Bart’s, saving John’s life along with Mrs Hudson and Lestrade’s, to swallowing down his curiosity about Mary’s past, planning their wedding to the smallest of details, giving John away in an act of literally unprecedented selflessness, keeping Mary’s secrets for John’s sake, and finally killing Magnussen in such a way that would leave John utterly blameless in the matter, taking all of the punishment onto himself, Sherlock has done nothing but live his life all to give John everything in his power that there is to give. It’s overwhelming, and this time John really does want to say whatever it was he didn’t get a chance to say last night. Only he knows that Sherlock doesn’t want him to say it. 

The silence lengthens between them. After awhile, Sherlock, who has been scratching at the surface of the table with one fingernail, finally breaks it. “Have you thought at all about what you’re going to do after all this is done?” he asks, eyes still on the table. 

John watches the trail of his fingers, too. “I have,” he says, cautious. He clears his throat. “I’d, er, like to come back here, if it’s all right. Move back in, I mean.”

The relief on Sherlock’s face is clear, though he’s obviously struggling to hide it. He nods, just a quick duck of his chin. “Yes.” He pauses, possibly filtering his words, then adds quietly, “I’d like that. For you to come home.”

John smiles, but Sherlock isn’t looking at him. Sherlock changed his words, from _back_ to _home_ ; he still clearly thinks of Baker Street as where John belongs, too. This pleases him, somehow. “Okay,” he says. “Once this is done, then.”

Sherlock nods, still looking at the table. Then he asks, carefully, “Are you all right? This is all a lot to deal with.”

John takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, then takes another sip of the chamomile. “I think so,” he says. “It is a lot, yeah. But it’s not as though we have any choice but to deal with it, right? I mean, I’m not going to step back and just let you and Mycroft handle it all. It’s _my_ wife.”

“That doesn’t make it your responsibility,” Sherlock says, finally looking over at him. “She was what she was before you met her.”

“I know that,” John says, and he does, but the reminder doesn’t hurt. “Still. I want to help.”

Sherlock nods again. “All right. Then tomorrow we join Lestrade in the search for the bodies. I’ll help the forensics team, if they’ll let me, and we’ll see if we can’t conclusively link it to Mary. We’ll go by the flat and search for that cap with the ponytail. We have her face on camera; we’ll match her visit to the time of death on Kyle Cheung’s body. And then we’ll let Lestrade make the arrests.”

“Are you going to tell him?” John wants to know. “We maybe should let him in on all this, or else it’s going to be a pretty big shock.”

Sherlock smiles a bit. “He won’t be that surprised. He was on the list of people who hate Mary.”

“Really! Why?”

“Not sure,” Sherlock says, shrugging. “But there are clear signs. In fact, the closer people are to you, the less they like your wife. Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” John says. “ _I_ don’t like my wife any more.”

Sherlock smirks. “I have to say, neither do I.” He smiles over at John, which makes that same warmth bubble up from whichever well it lives in, threatening to spill over. 

John opens his mouth and inhales to speak, but Sherlock’s face immediately takes on that same guarded look, so he closes it again. 

Sherlock gets up and takes his cup to the sink. “Perhaps we should both get some sleep, then,” he says, sounding a bit stilted, suddenly putting more distance between them. 

“I – ”

“Are you finished your tea?” Sherlock interrupts. 

“Er – yeah,” John says. “Sherlock – ”

“Goodnight,” Sherlock says over it, taking John’s cup away from him. “See you in the morning.” He exits the kitchen hastily, making for his bedroom. 

John is left feeling a bit deflated, but there’s nothing he can do about it. If Sherlock really doesn’t want to talk about any of that, then John can’t make him. He sighs. He supposes he’ll have to just let it happen organically. If Mycroft and Irene Adler are to be believed, Sherlock is more or less completely inexperienced in all matters of the heart (and body) and it’s very possible that he’s a bit alarmed by all that, at least when he isn’t acting. John thinks of how he’d described his fake relationship with Janine, _It’s very affirming_ , and wonders why Sherlock had chosen that way of putting it. As though he’d thought himself incapable of relationships of that nature or something. John had snorted at the obvious cliché but hadn’t really thought about it at the time, and given that later that day they were breaking into Magnussen’s office and then Sherlock spent most of the night dying, it had rather slipped his mind. 

Well. Never mind, then. He won’t push it. He supposes that once everything has settled down, there will be time to talk about feelings and what it means that John is moving back in and all of that. Meanwhile, Sherlock _is_ right: they have a big day ahead tomorrow and they’ll both need to be ready for it. John brushes his teeth and uses the toilet as quietly as possible, terribly aware of Sherlock’s presence just through the frosted glass door panels in the door that leads to Sherlock’s bedroom, then takes himself up to bed. 

***

John decides to let Sherlock tell Lestrade about Mary. It would be less awkward for Lestrade, for one thing, he thinks. While they’re talking, John is squatting next to Lestrade’s medical examiner as they extract pieces of decomposing corpse from the skip. The ME is chatting cheerfully about hoping to find the liver so as to deduce a time of death, and/or teeth to match dental records. He keeps up a regular stream of conversation pointing out the futility of the murderer having chopped the body up into pieces, thinking that might slow down the identification process. John decides not to tell him it was likely just to make it easier to get into the skip, but who knows what David was thinking. He glances over at where Sherlock and Lestrade are standing, the latter listening to Sherlock with his face scrunched up in some combination of disbelief and dislike for what he’s hearing, hands pushed deep into the pockets of his coat. Sherlock’s brow is furrowed, too, though that might just be from the light, and he’s speaking quickly and quietly, looking off somewhere else, not at Lestrade. He’ll be explaining all about the night he was shot, the consequent revelation, about Magnussen, probably. Mycroft already took care of punishment, so Lestrade won’t need to worry that he should be arresting Sherlock or something. 

The examiner says something to him then, oh, wants him to take the piece of hand over to the evidence collectors to keep for fingerprinting. John agrees, bags it and takes it over. Sherlock comes over to join him on his way back to the skip. “All right?” he asks quietly. 

“Yeah, fine,” John says. “So. Er, you told Lestrade everything?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says briefly. 

“And?” John wants to know. “What did he say to all that?”

Sherlock has that same, distant look on his face, his brow and the bridge of his nose creased as he looks across the park. “Well, he had a lot of questions, naturally. Think I answered most of them. He did say that he could arrest Mary just for having shot me. Mycroft still has the bullet that they took out at the hospital, and the supervising physician’s report about it is on sealed record. It could be used at a trial if it’s necessary to prove I was shot. Lestrade would rather get her for at least these two murders as well, though.”

“What about the rest?” John asks. “Everything that Mycroft has?”

Sherlock nods. “I did tell him that it’s much bigger than this case and he’s agreed to turn it all over to my brother once there is conclusive proof of these murders at the very minimum.”

“Wouldn’t there be footage from Magnussen’s office the night you were shot?” John asks. 

“No, apparently the system was disabled. Mary, or possibly Janine,” Sherlock says. 

John thinks of how they found Janine, unconscious and bleeding on the floor of the office. Mary had done that – knocked her own lover out cold, injuring her. “Will they get proof from this?” 

Sherlock shakes his head. “They’ll need to find the bullet and match it to the weapon. They’ll have to tread carefully.”

John grits his teeth with frustration. “Do you want me to go and look for the baseball cap when we’re through sorting chunks of Philip Dawes?”

“Yes, but I’ll go with you,” Sherlock says. “It’s too dangerous for you to go alone, when we’re so close to her crime. If she’s watching, she’ll know you’re here and suspect it’s related.”

“Won’t it be a bit awkward, if she’s home?” John waves back at the ME, who is signalling him excitedly. “I mean, you and she haven’t spoken since before your plane took off. Seems your cover of being friends was a bit blown there.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Sherlock shrugs it off. “I’m going with you.”

John accepts it. “All right. Look – the ME seems to want me to go back. I’ll help him finish and then we can go whenever you like.”

“Good.” Sherlock walks back over to Lestrade, but John knows that he’s still watching him peripherally. He’s worried, then. Concerned, at least. 

John takes a quick look around the park, but doesn’t see anything. 

***

Happily, Mary is out when they get to the flat later. Sherlock inspects the kitchen while John rummages through the closet. It takes a long time, but he finally finds it – the cap with the attached ponytail (ridiculous item), stuffed into a duffle bag containing an assortment of shoes and hats that Mary never wears. Disguises, then. When he exits the bedroom, Sherlock informs him that they have a very interesting type of mould growing on a jar of olives that Mary had at the back of the fridge from before he moved in.

“Great,” John says. “Leave it where it is. Where next?”

“The Yard,” Sherlock says. “I want to see how the forensics team is doing.”

***

They wait until dark has fallen to go to the block of flats where Kyle Cheung lived. Lestrade takes his team up to the roof the usual way, through the stairs and door – dull, Sherlock said, and insists that he and John use some scaffolding set up in the back alley for repairs of some sort. The scaffolding is leaning directly against the building, its highest level just below the roofline. It’s open on one side and a bit dangerous, and it’s windy to boot. 

“Careful,” John says as they take positions just below the short wall surrounding the roof. “It’s very windy.”

Sherlock throws him an _obviously_ look and says, “January.” 

Lestrade speaks into the earpieces they’re wearing. It’s a one-way signal only; he can’t hear them. “All right, we’re having a look around here. So far it’s clear, we’re alone up here, but we don’t know when this David character might come back. If the body’s still here, there’s a good chance it could even be tonight that he comes. Come on up but watch your backs.”

John looks at Sherlock, who nods, and they climb over the short wall and onto the roof. Lestrade’s team has fanned out, torches shining around, looking for the body. 

“Here!” one of the officers calls, and they all go over. 

The corpse is propped into a sitting position against one of the end walls, close to the corner. All but invisible from the door. John drops to a crouch and has a cautious feel, touching the skin with his bare fingers to gauge how cold it is, prodding here and there with the gloves on. “Your ME can determine time of death properly when you get the body back to the lab, but I’d say his time of death matches the night of his killer’s visit about ten days ago,” he says, avoiding Mary’s name even though he knows Lestrade knows. “I’d say he died in this position; it would have been too hard to arrange his legs like this otherwise.” Especially for a woman seven months pregnant, he doesn’t add aloud. 

Sherlock is crouching beside him, pulling up an eyelid. “Look at this,” he says. “Petechial hemorrhage, would you say?”

He’s shining his torch into Cheung’s eyes and John agrees. “Was asphyxiated,” he agrees grimly. “No sign of a bullet wound, so I suppose the shell casing in the flat was just a warning shot. I’d say that asphyxiation was how he died.”

“He was strangled?” Lestrade asks from behind them, a touch of disbelief colouring his tone. He knows who did this. John imagines he’s trying to reconcile his mental image of Mary, even disliking her as he apparently does, with strangling a Chinese man in his mid-thirties. 

“I’d say so, yes,” John says neutrally. Sherlock silently points to some marks on Cheung’s arms, pushing up the sleeve. “What’s this?” John asks himself, bending down to examine the marks more closely. The flesh is cut but the other marks… “He was burned!” he says aloud, in horror. “These are burn marks!” 

Sherlock meets his eyes, the set of his mouth too understanding. “He wouldn’t give up the access codes easily, I take it.”

She tortured him. That’s what Sherlock isn’t saying. John sits back on his heels, deeply disturbed. A pregnant woman, carrying a _life_ within her, did this to another human being. It’s one thing to have read Mycroft’s file about her past killings, but to see it first hand this way, the evidence beneath his very eyes – 

A gunshot rings out behind them. “Gun!” Lestrade snaps, stating the obvious. “Take cover!”

John reacts, ducking and half-turning on the ball of his foot to see the shooter but Sherlock was faster, already seizing him by the wrist and dragging him to his feet. He doesn’t let go as they run back toward the ledge beside the scaffolding. Sherlock pushes him over then jumps down onto the metallic structure himself (and even now, pulse pounding in his ears, John notices this, that Sherlock made sure that he went first before following; in the old days Sherlock would have leapt and assumed John was following him). John peers over the ledge carefully, pulling his gun out of his jacket pocket and simultaneously peeling off his rubber gloves. 

“It’s David,” Sherlock says, voice low. “Perfect timing.”

There’s a firefight going on; Lestrade has taken cover behind a large duct curving up out of the rooftop and David’s bullets are ricocheting off it. Another officer is shooting from behind the septic tank housing, but David is half hidden behind the door leading back into the building and so far no one has been able to get a shot in. 

“You’re outnumbered, Gordon!” Lestrade is shouting. “Put the gun down!”

David’s only response is to shoot back. 

On a whim, John stands up straight and gives a warning shot close to David’s head. “David!” he shouts. “Do as he says, or you’ll get killed! You’re outnumbered!”

David’s face twists at the sight of him. “Shut up, Watson!” he shouts back, angry. “You don’t know what you’re dealing with here!”

“Yes, I do,” John calls back. “You don’t have to protect her, you know. It’s not your child, either!”

David’s face registers both disbelief and rage and he shoots directly at John then. John ducks and staggers backward, the shot hitting a metal rail of the scaffolding, but he’s overcompensated, stepped too far. It all happens in a sickening split second – John has just time to turn round and see that he’s still moving toward the open side of the scaffolding, nothing there to come between himself and the ground. He’s going to fall. He is falling, the night sky opening before him like a maw. 

There’s an incredible jerk as his jacket is caught, pulling tight under his arms and at his throat and then Sherlock is hauling him backwards toward himself. “John!!” 

John has hardly registered what’s happened; it all went by so quickly. He’s gasping. Sherlock’s arms are around his shoulders, pinning John to his chest, his cheek on John’s head, as though holding him there in place with every part of himself that he can use. John takes several shuddering, deep breaths and tries his hardest to forget that he very nearly plummeted to his death just now. “I’m okay,” he gasps, shaken. “Thank God you caught me!”

Sherlock doesn’t say anything, the wind whistling around them. His grip tightens, if anything, perhaps as replacement for whatever it is he cannot seem to say. 

“I’m okay, Sherlock,” John repeats. He brings his hands up to squeeze Sherlock’s arms. “I’m all right. Thank you.” When Sherlock still doesn’t respond, John adds, with a bit of a laugh (nervous tension, possibly?), “You can let go now.”

“I can’t.” It’s low, barely audible, Sherlock’s jaw clenched. “John. I – ”

The raw emotion in his voice takes John by surprise, hitting him right in the knees, that same warmth in his chest roaring into flame again. Despite Sherlock’s iron-clad grasp, he wrenches himself around in Sherlock’s arms to look him in the face. He’s startled to see actual moisture in Sherlock’s eyes, fear stamped all over his face. “Hey,” he says, profoundly moved by this. “It’s okay.”

“I almost lost you,” Sherlock says hoarsely. “John – if you had fallen, I would have jumped after you.”

John stares him in the face for two seconds that seem to last an eternity, then grabs Sherlock’s face with both hands and kisses him, harder than he’s ever kissed anyone. It’s nearly violent, but Sherlock isn’t protesting, his mouth opening under John’s assault and giving it back a bit awkwardly but with as much sheer desperation as John is delivering. They kiss and kiss, the scaffolding creaking and swaying beneath them and every other thing has ceased to matter. David is forgotten, Mary is forgotten, the corpse and Lestrade and everyone else are forgotten. All that matters is that their tongues are clashing together, lips fierce, and it doesn’t matter at all that it’s a bit obvious that Sherlock has never kissed anyone like this before – it’s new and a bit clumsy but he’s giving it every single bit of his intense focus, and John feels as if he cannot possibly get close enough to Sherlock. Everything that he’s ever denied existed between them has rushed to the surface, and everything that he’s never admitted or said or acknowledged is there now, needing to be said at least like this, with his mouth on Sherlock’s. No more dancing around it, no more pretending they’re just friends and always have been. This is the only thing that matters. 

“Oh, Jesus,” Lestrade says in disbelief. “Sorry to interrupt, but I thought I’d let you two know that we’ve got everything under control up here.”

They break apart and John feels a bit abashed, wiping at the corner of his mouth. Sherlock, on the other hand, just looks annoyed. “That took long enough,” he says crossly. “You outnumbered him six to one.”

“Four to one,” Lestrade counters, “as you two were apparently otherwise occupied.” He grins at John, though. 

He’s still embarrassed. “I almost fell off the scaffolding when David took his shot,” he says by way of explanation, gesturing at the open side of the structure. 

Lestrade glances at Sherlock and seems to comprehend at once. “Got it,” he says. He jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “We’ve got Gordon in cuffs, taking him to the station. You two, uh, going to stay here all night, or do you maybe want to come downstairs with us now?”

“Cut the cuteness,” Sherlock says shortly. “We’re coming down.”

Lestrade won’t stop grinning, holding out a hand to help Sherlock over the ledge. “Well, I think this is great,” he announces, aiming the grin at John, too.

Once Sherlock is over, he holds out a hand to John. He doesn’t really need help climbing over, but he doesn’t want to refuse Sherlock at all, in anything right now, so he lets himself be helped over. “Yeah, you can stop that,” John says to Lestrade. 

“Just happy for you two,” Lestrade says, unrepentant. “I mean, Sherlock here has been wanting to snog you since the day you two met, I think, and it seems like you could have made a better choice there, possibly. Not to be tactless, mate, but I really think you’re better off with Sherlock.”

“So glad you approve,” John retorts, but Sherlock gives him a slanted, almost shy look that takes all the wind out of his sails, and as Lestrade goes on ahead with his officers, Sherlock takes his hand and squeezes it. They make it as far as the doorway leading back into the block of flats before Sherlock bends his head to kiss him again, then again, again. “Let’s – let’s go home,” John manages to get out between kisses. His entire body is on fire with both arousal and all the feelings he has suppressed and tried to ignore for far too long now. He hadn’t even realised that it was this much, this intense. 

Sherlock agrees, his mouth on John’s jaw line, and somehow they get themselves downstairs and into a taxi with a minimum of further smart commentary from Lestrade. In the taxi Sherlock sits directly next to him, crowding John into the door and John feels completely giddy, like a teen on his first date all over again. They’re holding hands as Sherlock gives the address. John’s never been all that big on hand-holding, but he feels he cannot possibly not be touching Sherlock somehow right now. He knew in his head that Sherlock loved him, but the moment of seeing his face, all of the fear written on it at the moment he thought he’d nearly lost John – just thinking of it makes John catch his breath, realising that Sherlock loves him _that_ much that he would have, as he said, thrown himself right after John had he not been able to save him. Sherlock is sitting right beside him, practically on top of him, their fingers locked together on his thigh. John turns his head to look at him and that’s all it takes for Sherlock to lean over and put his mouth on John’s again. John is dizzy, feeling almost like he’s got himself caught in a hurricane or something. Sherlock is all around him, leaning over him, surrounding him, his arm braced on the door of the cab as he kisses John. 

“Oi,” the driver says all of a sudden, alarmed. “No sex in the cab!”

Sherlock breaks off the kiss, rummages in a pocket and draws a one-hundred pound note from his wallet and throws it over the seat. “Shut up and drive!” he snaps, and John giggles and pulls Sherlock back by his lapels. The driver is silent the rest of the short drive, leaving them in front of 221B Baker Street. It’s difficult to get the door open with neither of them looking at the keys or the lock, but after repeated fumbling attempts it works and they’re stumbling inside, dragging each other up the stairs. They get as far as the landing before John finds himself backed into the wall, Sherlock’s tall form crowding up against him. John’s already hard in his pants but finds it simultaneously shocking and incredibly arousing when Sherlock presses up against him, his own desire quite unmistakeable against John’s body. 

He moans and gets the buttons of Sherlock’s coat undone, wasting no time getting his hands onto Sherlock’s arse. Sherlock is moaning into his mouth, completely wanton and apparently uncaring about it. 

John dimly registers the sound of a door opening, of footsteps, but there’s no time to say anything before it’s too late. 

“Sherlock, dear – oh!” Mrs Hudson sounds a bit appalled. 

“Not _now_ Mrs Hudson!” Sherlock doesn’t even look back. 

“Is that _John_ there?” She isn’t having it, isn’t going anywhere. “John Watson! After all that wasted time, now that you’re married – really!”

Sherlock gives a sigh of utter exasperation and half-turns over his shoulder, one of his hands still on John’s shoulder. “Look, long story short: Mary is an assassin, they’re getting divorced, and John is moving back in. And yes: we _are_ now. So do us both a favour and don’t come upstairs for the next several hours!”

Mrs Hudson’s hand goes to her mouth, unsuccessfully hiding something which looks to be a combination fond smile and smirk. “All right, then,” she says. Her eyes meet John’s briefly, questioningly, and John manages a shrug and a smile. 

“Upstairs,” Sherlock says to him, voice low and intense. “Before I ravage you right here.”

 _God_. The desire floods his every nerve, Mrs Hudson immediately forgotten. “Yes,” John gets out, and they stagger up, tripping over themselves and it doesn’t matter – it’s been far, far too long. This is how it should have gone from the beginning. No Moriarty, no false death, no Mary. Just Sherlock and him. (He doesn’t even know how long he’s loved Sherlock, but it was always there, wasn’t it, in some form, lurking in the shadows of his mind and heart? It’s not even a surprise that it’s come to this, at last.) 

Sherlock shoves the door of the flat closed and they’re kissing violently, hands wild, hips fighting together. Sherlock’s got him pinned to the back of the door, the coat hooks just above his head and they’re rubbing together and John doesn’t know when he was last this hard, wanted something this badly. He pushes forward off the door, trying to get even closer to Sherlock and somehow they end up on the floor, rolling over and over, Sherlock’s coat flapping and tangling around them like wings. He’s over John now, pushing down with his hips, his eyes wild and intense, his energy an electric storm that could consume John if he’s not careful, only it’s all he wants at the moment. Sherlock shifts, getting their erections closer together, frotting through the layers of clothing and John groans, arching up into it. Sherlock attacks his throat with his mouth, hands gripping John’s face, and then they’re kissing again, John rolling them over again to straddle Sherlock on the carpet, one of Sherlock’s long legs kicking one of the desk chairs. Sherlock’s eyes open. “I want you,” he says, his voice ragged. “God, John – want you so badly – ”

“You can have me,” John says, meaning it with his entire being. He runs his fingers through Sherlock’s curls and bends his face close to Sherlock’s, kissing him. “I’m yours.”

“What _happened?_ ” Sherlock asks, breathless. “Something just changed one day – suddenly it was just there, in your face. I’d seen it before, but all of a sudden you were just – different.”

“Mary and Janine said you were in love with me,” John says, plainly honest. He can’t lie to Sherlock now, not when it’s finally safe to be honest about all this, for both of them. “I didn’t know. Not consciously, at least. I didn’t know what to think, but then… the more I thought about it, the more I realised I felt the same way. And have done for a long time, I suppose. I don’t know.”

“But – you’re sure?” Sherlock asks. Below John, he looks terribly uncertain of himself, vulnerable and young. 

John touches his mouth to Sherlock’s again. “Very sure,” he says. “I thought you were never going to let me tell you.”

“I thought it was too soon,” Sherlock says. “And perhaps it is. I don’t want this to be – rebound, or whatever they call it. I want this to be real.”

“It’s real,” John promises him, the words almost catching in his throat. “I love you.”

Sherlock’s jaw clenches. “If you don’t mean that – don’t just say that to be kind,” he says, almost savagely. “ _Don’t_ , John. I don’t want that. I want _all_ of this. Everything. I can’t share you, can’t have you half still loving someone else. I want to be the only person there is for you, for – ” He cuts himself off, looking almost horrified. 

“Forever?” John asks, feeling his eyes go soft. “Is that what you were going to say?”

Sherlock bites his lip. “I’m not going to ask you to commit to that, while your life is still so – but – yes. I suppose that’s what I was going to say.”

John nods slowly. Even before he knew his own feelings about all this, he’d already decided, hadn’t he? He’d told himself there would be no more wives, just Sherlock and Baker Street. No more romance. Only he hadn’t known it could be like this. “I can do that,” he says, and his voice has come over rough. He clears his throat. “Forever sounds good.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “You can’t just take part of it,” he warns. “I’ll want all of you, no half-measures. And you know what I am. Difficult. Rude. Demanding.”

“And when you want to be, you can be incredibly caring, self-sacrificing, and thoughtful,” John corrects him. 

“I suspect I’ll be… rather intense,” Sherlock says, then clarifies, looking a touch embarrassed. “In… love, I mean. I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything. I want to crawl inside your skin and know every cell of your body. I want to ask you questions for days and know every thought that ever crosses your mind. I want to kiss you for months.”

John has to swallow; his throat has got blocked somehow. He nods again, finding it hard to speak. “Yeah,” he gets out, the word slightly mangled. “I’m in. For all of that. I’m yours.”

“I’ve always been yours,” Sherlock says, and John puts his mouth on his and kisses him fiercely, loves him harder than he knew he could love another person. Sherlock is straining upward off the carpet as though physically trying to meld himself into John. After several long, glorious, and slightly damp-eyed moments of this, Sherlock breaks off and pants, “I want to be naked with you. I want to feel you against me. I want you inside me. Can we do that?”

“Yes,” John says immediately. “ _Christ_ , yes!”

“Bedroom,” Sherlock says, and John agrees. 

They undress each other, lingering a bit over the new places revealed for the first time, but not too slowly. Sherlock can’t seem to get enough of tasting every bit of uncovered skin on John’s body, but his urgency keeps things moving, his clear hunger for John exposed completely for the first time, and John has to marvel again privately at the sheer amount of what Sherlock evidently feels for him. It’s completely mutual, he realises, even as Sherlock breathes onto his hip bone, worshipping him, fingers yanking his trousers and pants down his legs. John helps, stepping out of them and allows Sherlock to pull off his socks, his eyes stuck on John’s erection. Sherlock is bare to the waist, trousers open but still very much too present. John pulls him back to a standing position and goes to work getting rid of the rest of Sherlock’s clothes, interrupted by bouts of kissing. “I’ve – I’ve never done this,” John pants as Sherlock presses himself into John, both finally nude, Sherlock’s cock pushing into his stomach. “Not with a bloke, I mean.”

“I know that, idiot,” Sherlock murmurs, attaching his mouth to John’s ear. “I hardly think it’s rocket science. I’ve done my research. You’ll be fine.”

“I suppose we need, er, lubricant?”

“In the drawer,” Sherlock says, voice so low that it’s nearly a purr. “I suspect I’ll need to do some preparations. But then I want you inside me. I want you to claim me. Make me yours.”

John shudders, his cock knocking into Sherlock’s in desire so blatant it’s outrageous. “I can do that,” he says, his own voice lowering. “Get the lube and get on the bed.”

In answer Sherlock gasps into his neck, shivering and nodding. He backs away, cock standing stiffly at attention, flushed darker than the rest of his pale skin and John experiences another moment of total disbelief that this is happening, that he is the lucky one who gets to do this with Sherlock. He can admit that he wasn’t sure how it would go, if it ever came to sex, how the mechanics of it would work. He’s not averse to trying it the other way, too, but for now, what Sherlock wants is exactly what he wants. He wants to be inside him, to be the one to make them one joint being for the first time. He watches Sherlock find a small tube in the drawer of his bedside table and lie down obediently on his back, waiting for John. He arranges himself, one knee bent, his legs spread slightly, arms behind his head. He looks slightly apprehensive but reaches for John as John comes over and kneels beside him on the bed. John pushes the one knee down gently and takes the lube from Sherlock, spreading it over his fingers. He gives himself a stroke, just to coat himself well, then rubs the rest of it onto Sherlock’s cock. 

Sherlock’s reaction is immediate and vocal, his hand seizing John’s wrist – in encouragement or prevention John isn’t sure, but then he’s nodding frantically. “Yes – oh yes, John, _please_ – ”

Encouraged, John tightens his grip and begins to stroke, not too hard or fast; he doesn’t want Sherlock to come, but thinks he should at least acclimate him a bit to sexual touching before actually getting his cock into Sherlock’s untouched body. Sherlock is moaning and writhing, cheeks flushed. He isn’t particularly inhibited, which is a bit of a relief, but it’s obvious that the sensation of having another person touch him like this is new. John decides to confirm that, wanting to hear it. “So, have you never – ?”

Sherlock shakes his head, biting his lip again even as his hips tilt up into the circle of John’s fist. “Only you, John,” he pants, which makes John’s cock twitch as though directly connected to the hot burst of emotion that hearing this produces in his chest. Sherlock spreads his legs a bit more. “Kiss me,” he says. “And – keep touching me. More.”

He seems to be indicating where he means with the spread of his legs, and John understands. He stretches out sideways beside Sherlock and does as he’s asked, kissing Sherlock deeply even as his fingers rub over Sherlock’s balls and move back, probing.

As his first finger breaches the tightness of Sherlock’s body, Sherlock moans into his mouth, then breaks away, panting, pressing his forehead into John’s. “More.” 

“Sure? I don’t want to hurt you,” John says, though he’s already fingering the hole with a second finger. Sherlock is insistent, shoving himself down onto John’s fingers, and John’s cock is stiffer than ever, beginning to ooze against Sherlock’s thigh. Sherlock’s arms come around his shoulders, pulling John closer and they’re kissing again, John rubbing against his thigh as his fingers push and stretch and rub into and over Sherlock’s body. 

“Enough,” Sherlock breathes, eyes half-closed. “Take me. Fuck me. I want you inside me, _now_ ,” and John moans just because it’s so bloody fantastic, like something out of some filthy fantasy, but it’s real. The man who shot Magnussen just so that John’s life would be easier, who leapt from a building to save him, is here with him, naked in bed, and begging John to fuck him. There are no other confirmations to make, nothing to prevent this. So John does exactly that, slides onto Sherlock, pins his thighs up and back, and pushes into him, inch by inch, until he’s all the way seated inside.

The feeling is like nothing he’s ever felt before. John’s had sex with many women, but he has never felt this, nor has he felt this much emotion the first time he’s had sex with someone. Normally, for him, sex has come before the big emotions, but this time it was the reverse. He already loves Sherlock so much he doesn’t even know where to leave himself, and now they’re connected at the very cores of themselves. Sherlock’s eyes are open and locked on his and John feels like he can feel Sherlock’s very thoughts. “Okay?” he gasps out, but he knows it is. Sherlock’s body is slowly relaxing around his cock, allowing him access, and Sherlock is nodding. John is propping is weight on his left arm, Sherlock’s thighs holding him, and he can still bend to kiss Sherlock. He begins to move, meaning to go slowly, but the entire experience is too intense; they’re both already too far gone. Sherlock is ordering or begging (John’s not sure which it is) him to go faster and harder, and within the first minute John is thrusting into him without restraint, Sherlock’s tightness gripping his cock, eased by the slide of the thin layer of lubricant. He’s fucking Sherlock as though the world is going to end in five minutes, his free hand flying over Sherlock’s leaking cock and it doesn’t matter that neither of them has ever done this before. It’s just as Sherlock said, it’s hardly rocket science and this moment has been delayed about four years now and neither one of them can bear to wait another second. Sherlock is growing extremely loud, every single noise he makes, every tortured exhalation that bursts from his throat pushing John closer and closer to the edge, and he’s going to come any minute now but wants Sherlock to get off first. Finally Sherlock’s hand closes over John’s on his cock and together they jerk it violently and Sherlock arches and shouts as his orgasm hits, come erupting all over their hands. 

“Now you,” Sherlock pants, still moving, twisting to make John’s thrusts go even deeper. “Come on, John – come for me – come in me – I want to feel it – ”

The breath burns in John’s lungs, everything suspended for a second as he slams into Sherlock one more time, coming from what feels like his toes. The wave of it grips him, squeezes it out of him, battering Sherlock’s insides with his release, and then finally his hips go still and he lets himself collapse onto Sherlock, still buried in him. He’s unable to speak, to breathe, too spent to kiss or talk. 

Sherlock’s limbs have gone limp, too, his legs relaxing and sliding down to tangle with John’s, arms folding over John’s sweat-damp back. “That was…” he says, and seems unable to find the right words to finish the thought. 

John’s pulse is still pounding in his ears. “Good?” he suggests, wanting to hear it. 

“More than good. Good doesn’t come close. Amazing. Exhilarating. I want to do it again.” Sherlock’s hands are running up and down over John’s back and over his arse, any part of him he can reach. 

John manages a bit of a laugh at the last. “We can,” he says, “though you might be a bit sore. And I might need an hour or two.” He opens his eyes to find Sherlock’s on his, open and vulnerable and beautiful, the pupils still wide and dark, the blue irises shrunk into a thin circle around them. And he’s so beautiful – not just his face, but all of him. “Maybe less,” John amends, smiling. 

“Let’s say less,” Sherlock decides, and kisses him again. 

John understands now, the reluctance. It _is_ intense. Sherlock has clearly never been told anything about the rules of pillow talk or giving too much away during the aftermath of truly spectacular sex, because he’s murmuring sentimental nonsense and not even trying to hide it, shield it in coolness of any kind, and that alone makes John’s heart absolutely ache with love for him. But it had to happen when it did. It was time. It was past time. After a bit, he pulls himself out after he’s gone soft and settles into the space beside Sherlock, and thinks for a moment, that despite everything that’s happened in the past couple of years, he is the luckiest bastard alive. 

***

They don’t sleep much. Sherlock seems intent on discovering as many of the things he’s never bothered with in the past on their first night together, and after John has come for the third time in seven or eight hours (down Sherlock’s throat this time), he laughingly warns him that he might be done for the night. Sherlock’s refractory period is fantastically short, though John suspects that might have more to do with the fact of having lost his virginity rather late in life and his body trying to make up for lost time. They’ve spent all night just lying together and touching each other, experimenting and exploring and kissing a lot, dozing occasionally – though Sherlock puts an end to that fairly quickly each time. This last time, he woke John by crawling down his body and putting his mouth on John’s cock, which roused him in a hurry in more than one sense. Now it seems Sherlock might finally be spent, too. It’s dawn and they’re sprawled all over each other, the bed a complete mess, and Sherlock’s limbs are slotted into any space they can reach, over and under and all around John and John is supremely happy. He never liked cuddling much except on very rare occasion in the past, but now it seems he wants it as much as Sherlock does, wants to be in as close contact as possible at all times. Strange how things change. Or maybe nothing has changed; maybe it just needed to be Sherlock all along. John smiles to himself at this thought. He pulls the blankets over them properly and they sleep. 

***

The doorbell rings not long after, or so it feels. John groans, checking the time. It’s only a little after nine. “Leave it,” Sherlock mumbles into his shoulder. 

“I have no intention of getting out of this bed any time soon,” John responds, eyes closing again. “Possibly not all day.”

“You’ll get hungry and crabby within two hours,” Sherlock predicts. “Probably less.”

John swats his arse. “Nice,” he says. The doorbell rings again. “I hope they go away soon.”

“Do that again,” Sherlock says, meaning the swat. “Felt good.”

“You’re completely insatiable,” John says, though it’s hardly a complaint. He does it again and is rewarded by Sherlock shifting closer and pressing the beginnings of his arousal against John’s thigh, a happy sound forming in his throat. Fine, then. John turns his attentions to it, Sherlock’s response provoking his own. He shifts so that he’s under Sherlock all the way, hands grabbing at Sherlock’s (perfect) arse, slapping gently and groping less gently as Sherlock writhes against him, their cocks pushing together. 

Sherlock moans into his ear. “Mmm, yes – please don’t stop.”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” John tells him, eyes glinting up at Sherlock’s, and soon they’re just rubbing together, hard, until Sherlock gets his hand between them to jerk both their cocks together. John barely registers the doorbell ringing again as he comes several minutes later, the spray catching both of them in the chest. Sherlock makes a particularly vocal reaction to this and ejaculates himself. He comes down slowly from his peak, still moving against John, kissing him now. The sticky warmth of their release is going to leave them both incredibly filthy but John finds he doesn’t care all that much. They’ll shower later, probably together, as Sherlock seems to feel no rush to be more than about two inches away from him at any point in the near future, and John can’t even find it in himself to mind. On the contrary: he is deliriously happy and wouldn’t want it any other way. 

Suddenly there are voices in the kitchen – Mrs Hudson and Lestrade, of all people. Mrs Hudson is sounding nervous and fluttery, and a moment later there’s a knock at the bedroom door. “Sherlock,” she quavers. “You weren’t answering the doorbell! Greg Lestrade is here. Are you… awake?”

 _Decent_ , she probably meant to say, John thinks. And she knows damn well he’s in there, too. He looks at Sherlock, who rolls his eyes vociferously. “I am _now_ ,” he complains. “Why is he here?”

“I don’t know, Sherlock. Why don’t you come out and say hello?”

Sherlock groans. “Fine,” he says ungraciously, and Mrs Hudson retreats. 

John looks down at himself. “We are not fit for company,” he says. 

“Dressing gown,” Sherlock says, shrugging. He rolls out of bed and throws John his blue one. “That one’s your favourite, isn’t it?” 

John smiles. “Of course you knew that.”

Sherlock smiles back, the grouchiness gone for a second as he pulls on the deep red dressing gown. “Of course,” he agrees. “Well: this won’t be a surprise to either of them, when we march out of here together, at least.”

“Still,” John grouses. “They could have let us have our first morning together uninterrupted!”

“It better be important,” Sherlock agrees. “I hope Hudders put coffee on.”

John laughs. “Don’t call her that; she hates it.”

“Regardless.” Sherlock opens the door and they present themselves in the kitchen, where Mrs Hudson and Lestrade are indeed drinking coffee together. Worse than that, Mycroft has also just turned up, it seems. Sherlock groans again and deploys another eyeroll. “What are _you_ doing here?”

“I was invited,” Mycroft says, oily smooth. His eyes go to John, who is naked under Sherlock’s silk dressing gown. “Good morning, or should I say, congratulations?”

Before John can answer, Lestrade chips in. “I brought flowers!” he announces, gesturing at an assorted bouquet, likely purchased at Tesco’s by way of a joke. Mrs Hudson giggles at this and disappears down the stairs with her coffee. 

“Oh, cheers,” John says, trying not to sound too sarcastic. “Look, why are you both here?”

“Not to torment the two of you on your newfound… whatever it is,” Mycroft says delicately, eyebrows arched as though his disposition has been thoroughly unsettled at the very thought of it. “I imagine neither of you have seen a paper yet today.”

“Hardly; we just woke up,” Sherlock says irritably. “What is it?”

Mycroft takes _The Times_ from Lestrade and pushes it across the table toward Sherlock. “There’s been an exposé published.”

“An exposé?” Sherlock’s interest has been snagged. He picks up the paper and John moves closer to look at it. The headline reads _INTERNATIONAL ASSASSIN TAKES OVER MORIARTY’S CRIME NETWORK_. 

“Written by one Janine O’Shea, or as she’s now revealed, Janine Moriarty,” Mycroft adds. “As you’ll read, as she was Magnussen’s personal assistant, she has become the de facto leader of CAM Global Media and was responsible for the false Moriarty broadcast on New Year’s Day. As you’re both aware, she was heavily involved in her brother’s organisation, including when it changed hands and became Mary’s organisation. It seems things went south between the two of them and Janine has collected evidence and published an exposé using every media connection available to CAM Global Media.”

“She’s got proof,” Lestrade adds. “Seems every time Magnussen wanted hard copies of a certain piece of information, Janine was the one who fetched it, shipped it, you name it. She knew where to get it. And she’s got it, on Mary. Or Alma, I suppose we should say.”

John feels light-headed. “Janine wrote this?” He’s just catching up. 

Sherlock catches his brother’s eye. “He hasn’t slept much,” he says by way of explanation, but he sounds decidedly smug on top of it. 

“Too much information, Sherlock,” Mycroft says, looking ill. 

That part, at least, pleases John. He looks at Lestrade. “So – what happens now? Do you arrest her?”

Lestrade defers to Mycroft. “It’s not my jurisdiction,” he says. “It’s much bigger than that. With Mycroft’s information and Janine’s proof, Mary’s going to be put away for a very long time.”

“This has become an international incident within the past hour,” Mycroft says, checking his watch. “Alma Ackerly originally comes from the United States. They’ll want to extradite her, I imagine, but they’ll need to sort that out with our government in light of her recent crimes, and she’s also wanted in a number of other countries, including Sweden, Norway, Australia, and Lithuania.”

Lestrade takes the lead again. “Assuming we can find her, we’re going in today,” he says grimly. “I thought – I mean, I know how things are, but I reckoned you might want to say goodbye. It’s likely she’ll be sent back to a US-controlled prison, so it could be a long time before you see her again.”

John nods slowly. “Will there be a trial?” he asks Mycroft. 

“Of course.” Mycroft sounds a touch surprised that he would ask. 

Sherlock looks at him. “You should go,” he says firmly. 

John returns the look, feeling surprised himself. “Should I?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says simply. “She was important to you. You should go and say goodbye.”

John exhales. “All right,” he says. “What about her baby?”

“That’s the other thing,” Lestrade says. “Obviously you’ll be getting full custody. She can’t raise a baby in prison. And she’s certainly going to prison – regardless of all the international stuff, we’ve got her on the murders of Philip Dawes and Kyle Cheung, as well as assault with intent of murder on Sherlock alone. There’s no question that the baby can’t stay with her.”

John shakes his head. “It’s not mine,” he says. “Magnussen was the father.”

“ _Magnussen?_ ” Mycroft, for once in his life, sounds utterly appalled. 

“You’re joking!” Lestrade sounds blank, too. 

“I’m not. And I don’t want any part of the responsibility for their kid,” John says flatly. “If she was mine – but she isn’t. Find her a good home. A better one than she would have had with either parent. In America or Sweden, maybe.”

“Right.” Mycroft ticks off something in that irritating little notebook he always carries. “That makes things easier, then.” He checks his watch. “The team will be at your flat by now. I’ll call once Ackerly is in custody.” He gets to his feet and goes around the table to look his brother in the eye. Uncharacteristically, he doesn’t say anything for a moment, then nods at John over Sherlock’s shoulder. “Take care of him,” he says shortly, without meeting John’s eyes. 

Sherlock doesn’t back down. “I intend to,” he says, lifting his chin slightly. 

“Good. I thought I’d also mention that, though her testimony will certain put her behind bars as well, I have every intention of seeing to it that Ms Moriarty’s sentence is somewhat reduced for her help in this matter,” Mycroft says formally. 

Sherlock nods. “Yes. That would be good. Without her proof, this case could have gone on much longer.”

“Indeed,” Mycroft says. He nods at Lestrade and takes himself off. 

Lestrade lounges back in his chair a moment longer, his smile rueful. “Not the way you two wanted to start your day, I bet,” he says, downing the rest of his coffee. “Still, though. Better that it’s over, isn’t it? Give you two a fresh start?”

John shakes his head. “I can’t believe you brought flowers,” he says. “You tit.”

Lestrade grins hugely. “Come on, mate. It was way overdue.”

“You were at the wedding,” John says, staring at him. 

He shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. The two of you belong together. Even I could see that.” He gets to his feet. “I imagine your brother will send a car when it’s time,” he says to Sherlock. “So, I’ll see you both later.”

“Right,” John says. 

As Lestrade passes, he stops and shakes Sherlock’s hand for some reason. “Thank you,” Sherlock says quietly. 

“No problem,” Lestrade replies. “John.” He nods and then he’s gone, too. 

They’re alone again. Sherlock studies him. “All right?” he asks, then catches himself before John can answer. “Of course you aren’t. Stupid question. Come on – let’s take a shower, at least. And then I want to read this exposé properly.”

John nods, and takes the paper from Sherlock’s hands and sets it on the table, then goes to him and puts his arms around him. “Thank God I have you,” he says into Sherlock’s shoulder. “Or I would be so lost right now.” It’s the same thing he’s thought hundreds of times since the night Sherlock was shot, but now he’s finally saying it out loud. 

Sherlock’s arms come around his back and hold him close. “You’ll always have me,” he says, voice low, and it’s a promise. 

 

***

They’re quiet in Mycroft’s car, not talking, but Sherlock is sitting very close to him. Upon their arrival, Mycroft meets them at the door and pins visitor badges on both their coats. “Gun?” he asks John. 

“No.”

Mycroft fixes him with a stern gaze. “You’re certain?”

“I didn’t bring my gun to see my soon-to-be ex-wife off before she’s taken away, Mycroft,” John says, glaring. “What do you take me for?”

Mycroft is unmoved. “I have to ask. Emotions could run high in a moment like this.”

“Janine first,” Sherlock says to Mycroft. 

Mycroft nods. “Are you both going?”

“Yes.”

“Follow me.” He leads the way inside, past several doors that have to be unlocked with his access card. Finally he stops and points. “Through there. Third on the right.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock says, and they walk down the hallway together. 

Janine is sitting curled at the end of the bed, arms around her knees. She looks up when she sees them, her expression not changing much. Her eyes move back and forth between them, assessing. 

“Hello,” Sherlock says quietly. None of the ridiculous playfulness is there in his voice any more. This is real. 

“Hi,” Janine says. “Wasn’t expecting to see you here.” Her eyes go to John. “Either of you.”

“We came to say thank you,” Sherlock says. “For what you did. You made a very courageous choice, writing that exposé, knowing that it would incriminate you as well. And in doing so, it’s quite likely that you will have single-handedly stopped a very dangerous criminal and caused the collapse of your brother’s widespread network. Without a leader, it isn’t a network. Just individuals, and individuals are much easier to stop.”

Janine shakes her head. There are dark circles under her eyes and John wonders if she’s slept. “I didn’t do it to stop a criminal,” she says, staring at the far wall. “It was revenge, pure and simple. She – ” She stops and looks at John suddenly. “Did you know?”

John knows exactly what she’s asking. “Yeah,” he says shortly. “I was there two days ago. And the time before, unless there was another in between. The one when she choked you.”

Janine nods, her gaze sliding away again. She looks down, hiding her face. “Then you know why I did it,” she says to her knees. “It was too much. Finally I just – ”

She stops and a small silence forms. “No one should be treated that way,” John says. “You never had to put up with it. I mean, we know who your brother was, but you didn’t have to stand for all that.”

“I know,” Janine says. “Just took me awhile to get to that point. And I knew it would mean – this. But I had to do it. It was too much.” Her eyes go back to Sherlock, defiant. “But I didn’t do it for you or your brother.”

“I’m aware,” Sherlock says. “Nonetheless, thank you. Has my brother spoken to you?”

“Yeah,” Janine says, looking away again. “He says he’s going to make sure I don’t serve much time. He’s sending me to a place closer to home. In Belfast.”

“Good,” Sherlock says. “I’m sorry I lied to you.”

“Yeah, well, I lied, too,” Janine says. She looks at John. “Sorry,” she says, and it’s a bit general. 

“For what? Sleeping with my wife?” John can’t quite keep the edge out of his voice. 

Janine shakes her head. “No,” she says. “She was mine first. I meant sorry for making you so jealous over him.” She nods at Sherlock. “Seems like that’s sorted now anyway.”

John glances at Sherlock. “Yeah,” he says. “It is.”

“Then that’s another bit of good I didn’t mean to do,” Janine quips. She tosses her hair back in a half-decent imitation of her former spirit. “It was good of you to come by,” she says to Sherlock, and it’s obviously a signal to go. Sherlock nods, takes John’s hand, and they leave. 

When they’re out of earshot, Sherlock says under his breath, “The next one will be harder.”

“Yeah. I know that.” 

“I assume you’ll want to go in by yourself,” Sherlock says, but there’s a hint of question to it. 

John’s thought about that all morning, but he knows what the answer has to be. “I should,” he says. “She was – and still is, technically – my wife. She loves me, in her way. I at least owe her a solo goodbye, I think.”

Sherlock nods, accepting it. “I’ll be close by,” he promises. 

Mycroft meets them again and leads them to another section of the building, this time through significantly heavier layers of security. One door takes three different cards plus the card of the guard on duty to open. Finally they’re in an antechamber and Sherlock stops, leaving John to go on alone. John goes through the final door and stops in front of Mary’s cell. 

She’s sitting on the bed the way Janine was, but cross-legged to allow for her swollen belly. She looks small and defiant, her blue eyes as round as they ever were, her small mouth pursed in displeasure. She looks the same as she ever did, only the entire world has changed since they met. The very landscape of their lives has tilted and shifted and rearranged itself and made her a stranger. Sherlock came back, and she shot him. She was setting herself up to be the new Moriarty all along. She strangled Kyle Cheung. And now there are bars between them. Her eyes are full of pain as they go to John’s face where he’s standing in front of the cell. And accusation. Some part of her still isn’t remorseful, but sees herself as the victim of betrayal, rather than seeing the consequences of her own actions. He wonders if she feels badly for anything she’s ever done. It’s hard to remember to put all of those other very large crimes ahead of himself and his own feelings of betrayal – which are occurring on multiple levels, for multiple reasons now – but John sets his jaw and tries to keep all of it in mind at once. However, he doesn’t know what to say. How to begin. The silence gets very long. 

Finally Mary says, “Why are you here?”

John puts his hands in his pockets. “I came to say goodbye,” he says. He meant it to just be a simple statement. His voice shouldn’t be catching like that, but he can’t help it. This is hard, damn it. She’s still wearing his ring. 

“You’ve said it,” Mary says, trying to sound harsh, but she’s failing. She looks miserable. And yet, still unrepentant. 

“Is that all you have to say to me?” John asks, finally putting the question out there. 

Mary shrugs, looking self-conscious and unhappy. “What do you want me to say?”

John shakes his head. “I mean, just – all of it – _all that_ , Mary. You were never going to tell me. You gave me an empty drive and just expected me not to read it, not to want to know who it was I actually married.”

“If you loved me – really loved me, you wouldn’t have,” Mary counters. 

“No.” John rejects this firmly. “You don’t get to do that. That’s manipulation, and that’s not how love works. I believe that you love me. I’d like to think that you did all along, and would have gone on loving me, in your way, but you don’t have the first idea how it’s supposed to work. All those lies. Everything you ever told me – except that you loved me.”

Mary blinks, tears forming in her eyes. “I did love you. I still do.”

“And yet you’ve slept with how many other people since we’ve been married? While we were engaged?” John shakes his head again. When Mary doesn’t respond to this, looking at her fingernails and trying to pretend she isn’t crying, John hesitates. He does have to say all this, though. Lestrade is right – there won’t be another chance, not face-to-face. He’s not going to visit her in Guantanamo Bay, or wherever she’s going to end up after the trial. “I know about the baby,” he says, his voice clipped. “I was there in the flat when Janine was there. The last two times, in fact. I knew about all that, and that the baby is Magnussen’s.”

“They’re going to take her away from me,” Mary says, and the tears escape then, running over her cheeks like twin rivers. 

“Yeah,” John confirms. “You strangled a man with your bare hands less than two weeks ago, after burning and cutting him to get his access codes at the BBC. What did you _think_ was going to happen?” She doesn’t answer again, crying to herself, and he doesn’t think it’s a bid for pity – the tears are real, yet she still isn’t sorry. “Tell me something,” he says sharply. “Do you regret any of it? Anything you’ve done?” Mary looks at her knees, so John presses. “Killing that ambassador at the hunger conference in Somalia? The bombing at the Golden Globes? The Nigerian ambassador at the White House? Shooting Sherlock? Cheating on me? _Any_ of it?”

Mary twists the wedding ring on her finger and seems to be considering her words. “You were fine when you didn’t know about any of it,” she finally says, very quietly. “You shouldn’t have gone looking. Then you would still love me.”

“No.” It’s harsh but he _has_ to deny it, has to make her understand. “Then it wouldn’t have been you I loved, would it?”

Mary doesn’t answer, wiping her nose with the back of her hand, and John thinks of Christmas at the Holmes’.

“But that’s all you’ve got to say,” he says, to confirm it. “You don’t regret any of the rest. Just that I found out.”

Mary shrugs. “It wouldn’t matter if I did.”

“It matters to me,” John says, and waits. “So, did you?”

Mary stays silent another long minute, then gets up off the bed with difficulty, weighed down by her belly. She comes over to the bars and looks John in the eye. Without a word, she works the ring off her finger and gives it to him. “No.” She turns and goes back to the bed, not looking at him. 

It’s still warm from her hand. John closes his palm around it and doesn’t know whether to believe it or not. She could just be trying to make it easier on both of them. “Mary,” he says, his voice rough, “Come on. It’s never too late. To say the right thing. Feel the right thing. It won’t change the consequences, but it would make a difference to me to know that you at least – felt badly.”

“Is that what you want? For me to feel badly?” Mary stares at him as though he’s truly stupid. 

“It would be a good start, yeah,” John says, lip twisting. 

“I’ve always only done the things I had to do,” Mary states. 

“You didn’t have to become an assassin,” John says firmly. 

She shrugs. “I was good at it.”

John sighs. “Yeah, that’s what I mean, right there,” he says. “Christ, Mary. You could have done anything with your life, and you chose that – chose it on purpose.”

“You’ve killed people,” she throws back. “Don’t pretend you haven’t.”

“I know I have,” John says. “But not for money. Queen and country is one thing, or shooting someone in self-defense or in the defense of another life. How much were you paid for the CEO of the World Wildlife Fund, for God’s sake?”

Mary meets his eyes in a dead-eyed stare, unrepentant and unapologetic. “Ten million dollars. Ivory poachers pay well.”

It feels like a punch to the gut. “Okay,” John says. He accepts it, finally. Fully. “Yeah. Okay. I think I’m done here.” He looks at her one last time and can’t think of anything else to say. “Do you have anything else to say at all? Otherwise, I think I’m going to go.”

“Are you with Sherlock?” The question is delivered point-blank, Mary’s eyes boring into his face. 

John hesitates, then nods. “Yeah,” he says. “As of yesterday.”

“As of always, you mean,” Mary throws back. “You were never mine.”

“Perhaps not,” John says. “And you were never mine.”

Mary nods slowly. “Well,” she says. “That’s that, then.”

“Right,” John says. He squares his shoulders and puts the ring in his pocket. He notices he’s still wearing his own and pulls it off, putting it in the same pocket. He takes one last look at Mary. “Goodbye,” he says, and turns and walks away. 

The door closes behind him and he stops for a moment, his eyes closed. Sherlock is there waiting, standing in front of him when John opens them again. He doesn’t say anything, but his eyes are sweeping over John’s face in concern that he isn’t even trying to hide. 

“That was awful,” John says flatly. He had to say something. 

Sherlock nods. “But it was important,” he says. “You had to say goodbye. Make a proper end.”

“Yeah, I suppose so,” John says. 

Sherlock steps closer, taking him by the shoulders, and John thinks that if he weren’t doing that, he might not be capable of standing upright at the moment. “Now you’re really mine,” he says, then stops, looking unsure of himself, of whether or not that was an acceptable thing to say, particularly the timing of it. His brow furrows a bit. “Aren’t you?” he adds uncertainly. 

John feels himself smile, of all unexpected things, and the prickle of tears behind his eyes. He thinks of Sherlock having waited as long as he has for this moment, to finally have John. “Yeah,” he says. “I am.”

*


End file.
